


The Looking Glass Cracked

by AlElizabeth



Series: Monster In Familiar Flesh [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 37,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4451612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlElizabeth/pseuds/AlElizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Pre-Series. Dean is 17, Sam is 13. Dean gets injured on a hunt and Sam is left alone to continue working with John. Sam thinks this will be his moment to shine but he can't seem to do anything right. Then Dean returns and everything is once again right with the world. But then Sam's brother leaves unexpectedly for college and things become worse than the youngest Winchester could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Childhood's End

Sam shuffled through all the notes he'd written and the photocopies he'd made. He pulled out the one he was looking for and showed it to his father.

"Iron… that's good," John muttered, speaking more to himself than to his youngest son.

Sam smiled wanly; at least his Dad was happy that he'd done the research. Sam had missed an entire day of school in lieu of searching for a way to kill the baobhan sith that were killing young male hikers and campers who ventured into the Chequamegon National Forest. During the last hunt, Sam had studied for an important Geometry test instead of doing research like he'd been told. Needless to say, John had not been impressed and had spent a good three hours yelling at Sam before keeping him home from school so he missed the test anyway. John insisted that his sons go to classes so they wouldn't rouse suspicion with CPS but sometimes Sam thought he forgot that.

John raised his eyebrows at Sam, "What's a cairn?"

"A man-made pile of stones," Sam answered and pulled out a photocopied picture of one.

John nodded his head and set that paper aside. He didn't care about some pile of old rocks.

"I don't think it matters what type of stones you use-" Sam continued but stopped speaking when he saw the look on John's face.

Sam fiddled with the stack of papers he was holding, biting his lower lip hard. He should be used to this by now; he knew that his father wasn't going to give him a pat on the back and say 'Good work, Sammy!' but it still hurt anyway.

The motel room door opened and Dean stepped inside, take-out bags of food and a drink tray in his hands.

"Who's hungry?" He said brightly and set the food on the slightly grimy table.

John grunted an unintelligible answer, still reading over the notes Sam had given him as he moved over to the table and sat down.

Sam took his own seat, the papers sitting beside him as though he didn't want them out of his sight. Dean peered at the topmost page- it was the photo of the cairn that John had discarded- and picked it up curiously.

"Hey, is this one of those what-do-ya-call-'ems up in Canada?" Dean asked, looking at his brother "Is this for a History project or something 'cause you know we're probably not going to be staying here much longer?"

Sam shook his head, "It's called a cairn. One source says that to stop the baobhan sith you can put one of those on its grave."

Dean blinked, "But we don't even know where they're buried."

"We're not using it anyway, Dean," John spoke up from behind his paper, "Iron rounds should take care of them."

Dean gave an excited whoop, "All right! I love a good, old-fashioned shoot-out!"

Sam said nothing but took the Sprite his brother offered him from the tray.

When Dean pulled out the paper-wrapped bundles from the take-out bag, Sam couldn't suppress a groan.

"Burgers again! This is the third day in a row," Sam complained as his brother shoved a hamburger at him.

"I like burgers," Dean said as he unwrapped his cheeseburger and took a large bite.

John eyed his youngest son.

"If they're not good enough for you, Sam, than feel free to go to bed," John suggested in a tone that said he wasn't giving friendly advice, but an order.

Sam looked at his father, trying to decide if his Dad really wanted him to go to bed or not.

Chair scraping across the floor, Sam stood and swiped his cup of Sprite from the table, taking it with him as he made his way over to the beds. He set the drink on the bedside dresser and climbed under the covers, back turned so he wouldn't have to look at his father.

Dean raised an eyebrow at his father, "Sam's gonna have to eat something before we take out the baobhan sith."

John didn't reply he just took a sip of his own drink and a bite of his burger.

W

They didn't go after the baobhan sith that night. John wanted to get a second opinion about the research Sam had done and called Bobby.

"Why?" Dean spoke up as he crumpled Sam's burger wrapper, having eaten it himself.

'Waste not, want not' was Dean's motto. He peered at his younger brother who appeared to be sleeping, the slow rise and fall of his chest was a telltale sign.

"We want to get the jump on the baobhan sith, not the other way around," John explained.

"So, what you're saying is, you don't trust Sammy's judgment when it comes to research," Dean filled in the blanks.

John shook his head, "I don't mean it like that… I just wish the boy would spend more time helping us out then having his nose stuck in a textbook. He needs to set his priorities straight."  
"Sam always comes through for us," Dean defended his younger brother, "You know that."

John scowled. Dean was wrong, most of the time Sam was daydreaming when he should be working. He really didn't know what he was going to do with his youngest. John really needed the kid to smarten up.

"I'd still like to call Bobby, pick his brain," John had never come up against a baobhan sith and he wanted the older hunter's experience.

John told Dean to get Sam something to eat and left the room, headed next door to his own.

Dean stretched, burped and stood, making his way over to his brother.

"Hey Sammy, d'you want pizza?" Dean asked as he simultaneously shook his brother's shoulder.

Sam sat up and rubbed his eyes, "Dad's gone?"

"Yeah, went back to his room. Wanted to talk to Bobby, see if the old man's got another job for us," Dean lied about his father's reason for calling their surrogate uncle.

"Okay," Sam said and followed his brother to the door, pausing to pull on his shoes.

"Hey Dean?" Sam asked as they stepped outside and Dean locked the motel door.

"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean turned and strode toward the Impala.

"Thanks for that… telling Dad I do a good job on the research," Sam muttered.

Dean stopped. He'd thought Sam had been sleeping, hoped Sam had been sleeping so he wouldn't have to hear John say that about him.

"But Sammy, Dad's right; yah gotta get your head outta the clouds and knuckle-down when we need yah to," Dean told his brother.

"I know," Sam said quietly.

The only sound in the car was AC/DC singing "Who Made Who" as Dean drove into the tiny town that was overshadowed by the girth of Chequamegon National Forest. Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of a walk-in pizzeria.

Dean forked out a fistful of money and bought Sam a couple of slices of cheese pizza. He got himself a slice of deluxe.

The brothers sat side-by-side on bars stools at a counter that faced the window. Dean munched away on his slice, watching the townsfolk walk past the shop.

"I think Dad hates me," Sam muttered suddenly, through a mouthful of cheese and tomato sauce.

Dean almost choked on his pizza. He stared at his younger brother as though seeing him for the first time.

"What?" Dean asked, "Don't be stupid, Sam. Why would Dad hate you? What are you talking about?"

Sam looked up at his brother and Dean saw his eyes were pinched, dark green and knew something was seriously bothering the kid.

"Sam. Spill," Dean ordered, "What's the matter? Is it this case, huh? Is it because you missed class yester-"

Sam interrupted, "NO!"

Dean's brother peered surreptitiously over his shoulder before continuing in a quieter tone.

"Dad never takes you out of school to do research," Sam pointed out.

Dean smiled, "So this is about the other day-"

"Shut up an' let me talk!" Sam hissed and Dean shut up.

"This isn't just about the research; it's about… about… everything!" Sam exclaimed, unable to articulate his feelings.

"Dad treats me like I'm a kid," Sam began at square-one.

Dean scoffed, "That's because you are a kid, Sammy; you're only thirteen."

"I'm a hunter, Dean. The same as you and Dad. I stopped being a kid the second Dad put a gun in my hand," Sam leveled his gaze at his brother.

Dean sighed.

"I do all the research and I never get a thank you or anything," Sam continued, "I might as well be invisible."

"Sam, we don't get thanked for our job. Not everyone gives us hugs and gift baskets and shit like that for saving their lives," Dean argued.

"But Dad doesn't say anything," Sam protested.

Dean raised an eyebrow, "I don't say anything to you either."

Sam looked away from his brother.

"I'm not as good a hunter as you and Dad always reminds me… whenever we're training its always 'Don't you see what Dean's doing?' or 'Why can't you be more like Dean?' and I'm tired of it," Sam revealed.

"I've never heard Dad say those things to you," Dean commented and stuffed the last bit of pizza into his mouth.

Sam scowled. That's because Dean never listened. He only heard what he wanted to hear- Dad's praise toward him so he missed when John admonished Sam.

"Dad's hard on me too, you know," Dean said, "He has to be. Like it or not, he's not going to be here forever and he wants to make sure we can take care of ourselves."

Sam shook his head. He thought John's rough parenting skills were a little more than training for the day when he'd be gone.

Sam looked at his brother and saw anger in Dean's hazel eyes, "I don't think Dad's the problem Sam, I think it's you."

Sam opened his mouth to protest but Dean interrupted before he had a chance to speak, "Don't think I don't hear you two arguing. You and Dad fight almost constantly and more often than not it's you who starts it. I think you're just looking for a fight, Sam. I think you're just looking for problems, trying to push Dad's buttons to see how much you can get away with."

"That's not true, Dean, and you know it!" Sam spat vehemently, hurt that his brother didn't believe him.

Dean couldn't believe that Sam would try and make Dad out to be the bad guy. If Sam tried a little harder than maybe Dad would notice him, Dean thought. But John Winchester wasn't about to give credit unless it was due.

"Just focus on your work," Dean grumbled, "I balance schoolwork and cases so why can't you do the same?"

Dean knew that while he could go to school during the day and help their father out with hunts at night; it was a little more difficult for Sam who had, by default, become the researcher and needed to be at a computer or amongst a stack of books while the library was open. Sam didn't really have much of choice when it came to school or hunting- John had already made the decision for him that work came before education.

Secretly Dean felt just a little smug that he had the chance to go to school. He hadn't been able to forget what life had been like before his mother died, how normal life had been before the fire and he would do anything for a taste of that white-picket life again, even if it meant taking that same chance away from his brother.

Sam lowered his head. He knew Dean had won. His brother wasn't going to hear him out. Dean didn't believe him.

"Are you finished?" Dean asked and Sam nodded, he'd lost his appetite anyway.

The drive back to the motel was even worse than the drive to the restaurant. Dean didn't even put music on. Both Winchester boys just sat without speaking, listening to the sound of the Impala's engine growl and the rumble of her tires on the pavement.

Sam doesn't understand, Dean thought. He was practically born a hunter. He was only six months old when Mom died and he doesn't remember anything- this is the only life he knows. He'll take to it like a duck to water, eventually. Sure he complains that Dad's tough on him but it wasn't a cake-walk for me when I was that age either. Sam will just have to learn to suck it up and stick with it because if he doesn't have this, he doesn't have anything.

Dean doesn't understand, Sam thought. He wasn't born a hunter. He was four years old when Mom died and he has to remember stuff from before- this isn't the only life he knows. He'll realize this is what we're meant to do, eventually. Sure he likes all the recognition Dad gives him but he doesn't see how far from a cake-walk this is for me. Dean will just have to learn to suck it up and stick with it because if he doesn't have this, he doesn't have anything.


	2. Supernatural Superserious

Sam watched trees whip past the vehicle as John drove the black '67 Chevy Impala as deep into the forest as he could. His father grimaced every time a tree branch or bush came into contact with the car's roof or sides, no doubt scratching the paint all to hell.

Dean sat up front beside his father, eyes gazing eagerly at the slowly-setting sun.

This was the first time his little brother was coming along on a real hunt- no more Salt n' Burns for Sammy- and Dean was excited to show him the most exciting part of their job.

Sam was a bundle of nerves. He had only helped Dean and their father out on cases with ghosts and a group of baobhan sith were a big jump from pesky spirits.

He really, really wanted to impress his Dad, show him he was as good a hunter as Dean.

I can do this, Sam thought, I will do this. Just follow Dad's instructions and it'll be okay.

Sam wanted John to praise him so badly. He wanted to see the same pride that shone in John's eyes for Dean, to shine for him, just once.

He saw his father darting glances at him from the rearview mirror.

Don't mess this up, Sam thought, don't you dare let him down.

John had already told the boys the plan before they had left. Dean was going to be the decoy, since John was too old and Sam was too young to play the part.

John and Sam were to walk alongside Dean, out of sight of the young hunter but at the ready for when the baobhan sith swooped in.

All three Winchesters had guns loaded with iron rounds.

The plan was simple yet sweet and Sam knew he could do it. All he had to do was make sure his timing was right and not shoot too soon.

The car lurched to a stop and John killed the engine. He didn't speak but used hand signals to get the boys' attention.

Sam swallowed and tightened his grip on his pistol. His palms were sweaty and his heart felt like it was beating a mile a minute.

Dean gave his brother a comforting smile as they exited the car. John nodded to his boys and motioned to his eldest to take the lead.

Once Dean was about two dozen feet away from them, Sam and John followed. The boy's father put a finger to his lips, illustrating the need to be silent. Sam nodded and took in his surroundings- trees, bushes, the crunch of leaf litter underfoot, the scurry of nocturnal animals- intent on helping his brother and father kill the baobhan sith.

Soon Sam was out of sight of John and Dean. He could hear his brother though, the almost imperceptible sound of Dean's breathing and light footsteps.

W

Sam didn't know how long they'd been walking- it seemed like hours- and it was just his luck to forget his watch back at the motel.

He kept switching the gun from hand to hand as it grew heavier and heavier. A chilly breeze wound its way through the trees and Sam shivered a little, zipping up his jacket in an attempt to stave off the rapidly cooling night air.

As Sam walked he began to grow tired- his eyelids began to droop and he stumbled over easily avoidable obstacles more than once- but he just shook his head and continued moving forward, keeping alert for sounds of his brother or father or the baobhan sith.

Sam started when he heard the call of a night bird that sounded all too human. He stopped walking and leaned against the scratchy trunk of a pine tree, listening.

He could have sworn he'd heard the sound of soft, female laughter.

Sam pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as the whip-poor-will called out again and he felt himself relax a little bit.

C'mon Sam, focus! The boy scolded himself. Dad and Dean need you!

Pushing himself away from the tree, Sam continued on his trek.

Sam jumped up suddenly when he heard the unmistakable crack of a firearm going off somewhere to his right.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, completely forgetting his father's order of silence.

Sam took off running in the direction of the gunshot, heart pounding in his chest. Dean was in trouble and he wasn't there to help him.

The boy skidded to a halt as he entered a small clearing. His eyes widened at the sight of two lovely-looking young women advancing on his brother. Dean's face was contorted in anger and pain. Sam saw he was holding one arm to his chest, the blood coating his sleeve was black in the moonlight.

The women were tall and curvy, both wearing long green dresses, their blond tresses lifting from their shoulders unnaturally in the breeze.

"Dean! Look out!" Sam shouted as a third woman jumped at Dean from behind.

Dean's gaze snapped to his little brother standing on the edge of the clearing. He didn't even hear the third baobhan sith until it was too late.

The vampiric creature grabbed his neck from behind and shoved him forward, onto his knees. Dean brought his free hand around and grabbed a handful of the monster's hair, pulling her away from him. The creature's sisters hissed and Dean watched as their nails elongated into deadly daggers.

Sam had to do something. He couldn't just stand there like a statue and watch his brother get killed. He leveled his gun at the closest creature and fired.

The sound and kickback from the pistol sent Sam stumbling back to land on his butt. He watched as the baobhan sith all looked up momentarily, one of them turning her gaze on him, before turning back to their intended target, Dean.

The baobhan sith moved across the glade with incredible speed. She hissed menacingly as she approached the youngest Winchester now scrambling to stand.

"Sam! Run!" Sam heard Dean shout out and gasped as three more baobhan sith slipped out of the shadows of the forest to surround Dean.

"Stay away from him!" Sam warned, trying to keep an eye on the five monsters attacking his brother and the one now focused on him.

The baobhan sith chuckled and extended her claws, staring at Sam hungrily.

The monster leaped forward and Sam went crashing into a tree, the gun slipping from his grasp.

"No," Sam groaned as the baobhan sith raised a hand menacingly.

Sam scrabbled at the ground, his fingers closing around a baseball-sized rock.

"NO!" Sam shouted as the creature swung downwards, bringing the stone up to crash into her daintily-featured face.

The monster screeched and Sam screamed as its claws raked his flesh.

The last thing Sam saw before blacking out was a large figure step out beside the injured baobhan sith and a flash of white light as a gun went off.

W

The first thing Sam saw when he woke up was a large, blazing orange fire. Thick smoke swirled up between the trees to obscure the sky. A burly figure stood in front of the pyre and Sam knew it was his father.

The boy realized he was sitting up, his back propped against the same tree he'd been slammed into by the baobhan sith. Sam tried to move but sank back with a groan, his abdomen searing with pain.

Looking down he saw his t-shirt was shredded and damp with blood. Lifting the ruined cloth, Sam gulped at the sight of three horizontal lines crossing his belly.

"They're just flesh wounds, you'll live," John's rough voice made Sam jump.

Flesh wounds, Sam thought dazedly.

He gulped, not meeting his father's eyes, "Is Dean… Is he okay?"

"No, he's not okay, Sam. He almost died," John growled and Sam lowered his head in shame.

"Now that you're awake you can help me," John said, "Get up."

Bracing himself against the tree trunk, Sam inched into a standing position. His head swam and his father appeared to have a corona of shimmering light surrounding him.

"Are the baobhan sith dead?" Sam asked, still refusing to meet John's gaze.

"Yes," Sam's father answered brusquely.

No thanks to you, Sam filled in the blank left by his father.

Sam took a cautious step forward and the ground tilted beneath him. He grabbed the tree trunk and gulped; afraid he was going to puke.

All Sam wanted to do was sit back down until the ground stopped moving but one look from John squelched that idea quickly.

"We have to carry your brother back to the car," John told his youngest son. The fire had died down somewhat and now Sam could see red-hot coals sending up wispy white smoke.

John indicated a bundled figure lying on the wet grass. Dean's face was pale and his eyes were closed- if Sam didn't know any better he'd think his brother was dead- with their father's jacket wrapped tightly around his prone body.

Sam hesitated, not sure what he was supposed to do until his Dad grabbed Dean beneath the armpits and hoisted him up.

"Get his legs," John grumbled, grunting with exertion.

Sam hurried over despite the nausea rolling around in his stomach and grabbed his brother's ankles.

John began walking backwards- he didn't trust Sam to do it- and slowly moved away from the clearing, the fire the least of his concerns.

W

Sam wished they could take a break but he didn't dare ask. His arms ached with fatigue and the sweat coursing down his chest stung the wounds on his belly.

Mercifully, the Impala appeared, gleaming black and welcoming. Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

He helped his father arrange Dean into a comfortable position on the backseat. Sam sat up front but wouldn't look at John, knowing he'd only see disappointment in his eyes.

The drive out of the woods was deathly quiet, broken only by the sound of the three Winchesters' breathing.

"Are we taking Dean to a hospital?" Sam asked quietly. He wondered if his Dad thought Dean's injuries were serious enough for so drastic a measure. Normally John stayed away from Emergency Rooms unless one of them was gushing blood.

"I'm going to drive him up to Jim's," John told Sam.

The boy nodded. Pastor Jim Murphy would take good care of Dean and would save them the trouble of explaining his injuries to a doctor.

"Are we stopping at the motel first?" Sam asked.

"We? No Sam, you're staying here," John muttered.

"But-" Sam began but John turned to his youngest.

"I can't deal with you right now. I am dropping you off at the motel and heading to Jim's by myself!" John snapped, causing Sam to flinch.

"What about Dean?" Sam asked, worried about his brother.

"He'll survive without you," John said nastily.

Sam's shoulders hunched. He'd screwed up the hunt and now his Dad was pissed at him. But he had tried to do the right thing! He had tried to defend Dean from the baobhan sith but there had just been too many of them.

John slid the Impala into the parking lot of the motel, stopping just in front of their room and shoved the keys at Sam.

Sam didn't even ask his Dad how long he would be. He thought maybe it was best he was alone anyway.

He was sure he was going to be in for the lecture of his life when John returned.

Sam's father didn't even bother to wait until his son was safely inside; Sam had barely closed the car door before John was tearing out of the parking lot.

Sam stared after his family for a moment, feeling acutely lonely and miserable. His Dad was furious at him, as he should be, but Sam wished he could go back and do things right, not be the big fuck up John thought he was.

Sam sighed sadly and unlocked the room door. He stepped inside and peeled his clothes off even as he headed to the bathroom for a much needed shower.

Sam just stood in the stream of hot water and let it course over his body. The heat stung the cuts on his belly but he could see that his Dad was right- they were not very deep at all and he doubted if they would even leave scars.

Sam knew it could have been much worse. He could have ended up like the baobhan sith's first victims- sliced to ribbons and drained of blood- or like Dean, who had remained unconscious throughout the trek back to the car and the drive to the motel.

I got off lucky, Sam told himself as he pulled on a clean t-shirt and pair of boxer shorts, really lucky for my first hunt.

Sam grimaced. Sure, he hadn't been cut down by any monster tonight but he still had to deal with his father's wrath when he returned home. And Sam wasn't stupid; he knew that when John came back there would be hell to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a R.E.M song.


	3. Absentee Father

Sam lay in his bed, listening to the steady ticking of the wall clock and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

He couldn't believe how badly he'd screwed up the hunt- his first real hunt- for Cripes sake!

No wonder Dad only let me go along on ghost-related cases, Sam thought glumly, no wonder he didn't trust me.

Sam squinted at the red glow of the alarm clock beside his bed- it was five forty-two in the morning- and sighed, his hands drifting to the baobhan sith scratches on his belly, thinking what small price he'd paid for his mistake.

W

Sam peeled his eyes open at seven a.m. just in time to go to school. He decided that sitting in a classroom was better than pacing anxiously around the motel room for hours on end. He sat up and stretched, grabbed his duffle bag and rummaged through it for some clean clothes.

Once dressed, Sam's growling stomach sent him in search of breakfast. He peered into the bar fridge and cupboards of the tiny kitchenette but came up empty- the only thing worth pursuing was the packet of complimentary instant coffee he'd found- and turned his attention on his father's and brother's duffle bags. Sam was silently grateful that his father had left the bag in their room the day before, having been too distracted with the case to remember to take it to his own room.

John Winchester almost always kept 'emergency funds' in his bag in case they ran low on cash and Dean, who had recently discovered his talent for pool and poker, should have some money squirreled away for a rainy day.

To Sam's mild dismay however, all he found was a handful of change at the bottom of his brother's bag- hardly enough to by something from a vending machine- and sat back on his heels with a sigh.

Dad can't be gone very long, Sam reminded himself; he'll just stay long enough to get Dean settled, make sure he's okay and then come back.

Sam made himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table as he drank the steaming liquid caffeine.

At ten after eight Sam slipped on his mud-covered sneakers, shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his backpack.

He gave the room a cursory once-over to make sure no weapons or other hunting paraphernalia was sitting in out in the open. The only thing that caught Sam's eye was the stack of paper's he'd printed off the day before- all about the baobhan sith and how to destroy them- which he scooped up and shoved into his backpack before leaving. He'd dump the papers on his way to school.

W

"Sam, can you stay after class for a few minutes?" Mrs. Littleton asked Sam as he stepped inside the classroom at eight-thirty.

"Oh, okay… sure," He muttered and took his usual seat at the back of the room.

Sam barely paid attention to his teacher- all he could think about was Dean.

This is ridiculous, Sam thought, why did I even decide to come today?

When the bell rang to signal the beginning of recess, Sam went to his locker and shoved all of his belongings into his backpack.

As the other kids ran out to the yard, Sam walked nonchalantly down the hallway, trying to seem casual.

Thankfully no one stopped Sam and he trudged back to the motel room.

The three blocks back home were longer than usual. Sam's stomach reminding him that he had not eaten any breakfast.

He stopped in front of a variety called Mel's and stared at the sign advertising SNACKS, SODA & SIGARETTES!

Sam could overlook the poor spelling, he decided; more interested in the prospect of getting something to eat, anyway.

A tiny bell chimed when he opened the door and the tall, whiskery, bespectacled man at the counter peered at Sam as though trying to determine whether or not he was going to cause trouble.

Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walked purposefully to the back of the store, away from the cashier's prying eyes.

He stared at the rows of snack foods- the chips and candy bars and peanuts- gearing himself up.

I can do this, Sam told himself, it'll be so easy. Just don't think about it.

Sam peered around the ceiling, searching for security cameras but saw none.

It's just one chocolate bar, Sam reasoned and his stomach gurgled as though in agreement.

Sam's hand snaked out of his pocket and hovered above a Mars bar. After one last cursory look around to make sure the coast was still clear, Sam grabbed the chocolate bar and shoved it into his pocket.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and smiled slightly to himself. He walked down the aisle and slipped out of the store just as a group of high school kids pushed themselves inside.

Once on the sidewalk Sam broke into a run- he couldn't help it, he'd never stolen anything in his life- and didn't stop until he saw the dirty, worn out sign of the tiny motel they were staying at.

His Dad wasn't back yet- no surprise there- and Sam leaned against the motel door until he had caught his breath.

Sam reached in his pocket and took out the candy bar. He stared at the brown wrapping, the red lettering and felt a pang of guilt.

First you fuck up your first serious hunt and now you become a thief!

All contrite thoughts were dispelled when Sam's stomach gave a long whine.

He ripped the paper off the candy bar and greedily took a bite. It was just one little chocolate bar for Christ's sake! No one would miss it.

Sam forced himself to eat slowly, knowing he'd be just as hungry as before if he wolfed it. Besides, he wasn't too worried, when Dad came back he'd have money and they'd get some real food.

W

Every time Sam heard the sound of a car engine, he got up from his bed and ran to the window, pulling the dusty curtains out of the way only to be disappointed when the Impala was nowhere in sight.

Sam's eyes crept to the sunburst clock in the kitchenette at least every ten minutes or so in anticipation of his father's return.

A part of Sam was glad his father wasn't there. A part of Sam wished that his Dad wouldn't come back, but another part longed for him, he was Sam's father after all and an integral member of their small family. Sam just wished his Dad would have some faith in him, that he wouldn't shoot him down all the time. How hard was it to give Sam just a little praise for research well done? Sam knew that John was just trying to toughen him up, always saying that Sam was far too sensitive but it also hurt when Dean got all the smiles and positive reinforcements. Sam briefly wondered if Dad was so intense when Mom had been alive.

Mom probably wouldn't let Dad talk to me like I'm just a big screw up, Sam thought. If Mom was still alive, Dad wouldn't be fighting monsters. Dad wouldn't be gone for days on end.

Sam bit his lip, frustrated, and jumped when a car door slammed just outside the motel room.

The boy hurried over to the window and peeled back the curtains- there was John Winchester looking out at the parking lot- before running for the door and opening it so fast his father didn't even have time to touch the handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Filter song.


	4. The Division Bell

The first words out of Sam's mouth were questions about his brother.

"Is Dean okay? When's he coming back? Did he wake up yet?"

John sighed, glowered down at his youngest son but answered tersely, "Dean will be fine. He'll be away for two or three weeks. He woke up while I was driving."

Sam blinked, a little shocked at his father's short-tempered reply. Sam had thought that the hours would mellow his Dad's initial anger at him… apparently not.

"Dad, look I'm-" Sam began but John interrupted.

"I know you're sorry," his father snapped.

Sam flinched and looked down, "I'll make it up to you… and Dean."

John shook his head, "It's too late for that, Sam. You've shown me that you can't be trusted on hunts."

Sam gaped, "It wasn't my fault!"

John practically growled at the boy, "You almost got yourself and Dean killed!"

Sam felt tears well up in his eyes at his father's words but he was determined not to shed them.

John sighed in angry exasperation, "Oh so you're going to cry now? Maybe if you did something right for once I wouldn't have to hound you all the time."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered and felt tears on his cheeks.

The boy gasped when John grabbed his shoulders and shook him, "Sorry doesn't save lives, Sam, and you need to learn that. Blubbering like a baby doesn't fix anything so I'm sorry but you'll have to man-up and get over it."

John released his son and ran a hand over his face, "I'm going out, I'll be back in a few hours."

Sam snapped out of the stupor he'd slipped into while listening to his father and followed John as he headed for the door, "Dad, wait-"

But the door closed with a snick and Sam was alone again. He didn't move as he heard the growl of the Impala's engine start up and fade as John drove out of the parking lot.

Sam sat down heavily on his bed. His Dad was never going to trust him ever again. He was never going to let Sam go on a hunt again.

Sam wiped his face angrily. He'd blown his last chance for gaining his father's approval.

W

It was dark by the time John returned to the motel. Sam heard the unmistakable growl of the Impala as it pulled into its parking space.

The boy listened as the car door slammed shut and his father fiddled with the keys to his motel room.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He was sure his Dad had been at the local bar- something he usually reserved for the anniversary of Mary's death- and likely had one too many drinks.

Sam heard John's door open and snap close and he turned off the TV show he'd been watching to pass the time. His Dad would probably sleep off the booze and be surly in the morning but at least he wasn't going to tear Sam a new one that night.

Sam turned off the lights and climbed into his bed. He lay on his back, thinking about Dean all the way in Blue Earth with Pastor Jim and wondered if his brother was thinking about him.

Sam gave a low chuckle. If Dean knew what he was thinking he'd probably tell Sam to stop being such a girl.

W

A sharp rapping woke Sam the early the next morning. He looked at the alarm clock to see it was five a.m.

The boy stumbled out of bed and peered through the door's peep-hole to see his father. Sam gulped and unlocked the door.

John didn't wait for his son to speak before he growled, "Pack your stuff, we're leaving."

Sam remained where he stood, "Why?"

He'd thought they'd stay in the motel until Dean had recovered; it was only a handful of hours from Blue Earth and seemed reasonable to stay close to Minnesota so they could pick up his brother when the time came. But John Winchester didn't stop hunting for anything; not even with his eldest son laid-up at a friend's place miles away.

"Because I said so, that's why," John snapped in reply.

Sam left the door open but walked further into the room and began shoving clothes into his duffle bag. He hadn't bothered to change out of his jeans and t-shirt he'd worn during the day before going to bed and simply slipped on his sneakers and slid his jacket over his shoulders. Almost as an afterthought, Sam hooked his backpack, still brimming with school and notebooks into to crook of his arm.

Sam watched as John stalked around the small motel room, flinging the bedclothes into a heap on the two beds, eyes sweeping the floor and tiny kitchenette for forgotten objects. He bent down to grab his eldest's bag and paused for a moment when he realized he'd left his in his sons' room.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked as John seemed pleased with the way they were leaving the room and began stomping toward the door.

"Akron," John supplied.

"In Ohio?" Sam asked as he followed his father out of the motel room.

"Yes, in Ohio," his father replied in a mocking voice, "Heard that there might be a shapeshifter there."

Sam nodded but didn't respond. His father had taken on shapeshifters before and from what Sam knew of them they were some sneaky sons of bitches. It was wise to bring backup when fighting a shifter; they could easily get the jump on a lone hunter, even a veteran like his Dad.

John unlocked the Impala's doors and Sam handed him his backpack and duffle bags to go in the trunk. After his father took the luggage without comment Sam slid into his usual seat in the back. He didn't really want to sit up in shotgun anyway, not only because it was Dean's seat but because he didn't want to sit that close to his Dad. Not when John was in a mood, anyway.

John closed the trunk with more force than was necessary and got into the driver's seat. He adjusted the mirror so he could have a view of his youngest son as well as whatever was coming up behind them and put the key in the ignition, starting the Impala with its familiar growl.

W

They drove for a large chunk of the day, neither Winchester speaking much. John stopped for breakfast in Madison at nine in the morning, a little over four hours since they'd left the Chequamegon National Forest.

John pulled into the parking lot of a lonely roadside diner and was already striding toward the door before Sam even gotten his seatbelt off.

The boy followed his father into the diner, bell tinkling as the door shut after him and seated himself across from John when he slid into a booth.

A bored-looking waitress in a pink dress and greasy white apron came over, handed them both a menu and stood chewing a piece of gum as though she was a cow munching her cud.

John's gaze shot to the woman's face, sharp. Sam didn't look up but peered at the menu as though he had forgotten she was still standing there.

"Coffee," John said after eyeing the waitress.

"And you?" Sam jumped a little when the woman turned her attention to him.

"Uh… the same?" Sam peered at his father for confirmation. Coffee was the cheapest drink on the menu, besides water, and Sam decided he could use something warm in his belly.

The waitress raised an eyebrow, probably wondering what kind of parent let their kid- who looked years from needing to shave- drink coffee.

"That's fine," John commented in a 'you can go away now' tone and the waitress sauntered off toward the kitchen.

Sam's stomach grumbled loudly and he kept his eyes fixed on the menu. He heard his Dad turning the laminated pages of his own but he didn't say anything.

Sam bit his lip, he wanted to say something but he had no idea what.

"So, uh, Akron eh? How many people ar-" Sam began but stopped when his Dad told him to be quiet.

Sam nodded and didn't look up when the waitress brought the coffee along with a bowl filled with little containers of cream and milk and a shaker of sugar.

"Know what you're getting?" the waitress asked as if she wouldn't have cared if they'd ordered anything else or not.

"Lumberjack breakfast for me," John answered and closed his menu.

The waitress turned her attention to Sam, "And you?"

"Scrambled eggs and toast," John answered for his son.

The waitress nodded and walked away to fill their orders.

Sam pulled his cup of coffee closer to him, relishing the warmth seeping from the ceramic. He grabbed a handful of milk cups and poured them in. Next he poured in sugar and sipped the steaming drink.

At least its sweet, Sam thought, unable to taste the actual coffee over his additives.

John drank his coffee black, peering over the rim of the cup at his youngest son.

Why can't he be like Dean? Why can't he do anything right?

Sam made a point of not looking at his father, gazing down into the milky contents of his coffee cup.

Why does he want me to be so much like Dean? Why can't I seem to do anything right?

"Here are your breakfasts," the waitress startled both Winchesters from their thoughts, one feeling guilty and the other feeling angry.

John muttered his thanks and Sam gave the woman a wan smile.

Sam hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he saw the food sitting before him. He eagerly grabbed his fork and knife and began eating as though he hadn't had food in days because, except for the chocolate bar the last thing he'd eaten was a half a slice of pizza before going out to hunt the baobhan sith.

Sam had never really liked eggs- he didn't like their slimy texture or sulfurous smell and taste- he was more of a pancake kind of person but he didn't complain, who knew when they'd stop to eat again.

He wished that his Dad would say something to him- the silence was disconcerting- and Sam found himself trying to think of some topic of conversation that wouldn't result in an argument or an annoyed glare from his father.

W

Sam finished eating first and drank his coffee slowly to pass the time. The waitress topped-off his mug twice after reassuring them that refills were free.

John tossed some bills onto the table and stood without a word. Sam followed obediently behind his father as the man walked out of the diner in silence.

Settling in the backseat, Sam peered into the rearview mirror and saw his father's dark brown eyes scrutinizing him.

Talk to me! Sam willed John to speak. Say something! Anything! Yell at me again!

His Dad's gaze turned to the road and the Impala rumbled back onto the road.

Sam sighed and peered out the passenger window. It was going to be a very long drive to Ohio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a the name of a Pink Floyd album.


	5. 3 Day Weekend

Sam woke at the sound of the car door slamming shut. He yawned and peered out the window. It was dark out- the interior of the Impala was illuminated by an orange streetlight- and eerily quiet.

John stood at the driver's side for a moment and didn't move until Sam had opened his door and peered out.

"Where are we, Dad?" Sam asked; the first words he had spoken to his father since they had left the diner in Madison.

"Palatine," John answered, "Stay in the car, I'll get us a room."

Sam closed his door and sat back as he watched his father stalk toward the main office.

Palatine? They were in Illinois, then. Sam remembered driving through Rockford in the afternoon and then Elgin in the evening but after that he must have dozed off.

The boy slipped out of the car and leaned against its door. It was cool out but not chilly and the light breeze felt good against his warm skin.

"Sam!" John's voice barked as he stepped out of the main office, room key dangling from one hand.

His son looked up, slightly surprised and nervous. He opened the rear passenger door as his father approached him.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car?" John growled, throwing open his own door.

"I was just out for a second-" Sam began but his Dad shook his head.

Why do I even try and talk to him? Sam slid into his seat as John drove to their room.

W

Sam looked up from the television show he was watching to see John still at the small, scratched table in the corner, talking on his cell phone.

His father was clearly angry; his voice was low and dangerous, his free hand hitting the tabletop with a clenched fist.

"I'm gonna need more than that, Caleb!" he snarled and paused as the fellow hunter responded.

"I don't want excuses, I want results!" John snapped, "I don't care that you're in Alaska! I need-"

His Dad was interrupted by Caleb and frowned, rubbing his beard with one hand.

"No…" he muttered, "No, Dean's up at Jim Murphy's…"

"Yes," John growled, "Alright, alright…"

He peered over at Sam and closed the cell phone with a snap.

"Looks like I'll need you to do research on this shifter," John didn't sound thrilled about the idea of having Sam do anything related to hunting but he didn't see any other option.

Sam perked up immediately, he may not be good with the actual hunting aspect of hunting but he researched better than his Dad and Dean combined.

Maybe this is my chance to redeem myself! Sam thought and couldn't help but smile.

"What the hell are you grinning at?" John snapped and Sam frowned. He turned his attention back to his show.

"Turn that off, I want to be on the road before six," his father instructed and pulled his boots off.

Sam watched his father turn out the lights and climb into one of the single beds. The boy hit the OFF button on the remote and the TV went dark. He got into the other bed and lay down on his back.

When we get to Akron I'll show Dad I'm good at something, Sam thought, I'll make him proud.

W

Sam was barely awake when he stumbled out to the Impala, John marching along ahead of him.

The sun was just a pink smudge on the horizon and the roads were devoid of traffic.

"Hurry up!" John snapped as Sam shoved his luggage into the trunk.

Sam peered sleepily at his father and shuffled over to the passenger door. He let out a loud yawn as John unlocked the car and slid inside.

Instead of buckling himself into his usual seat, Sam lay down on the cool leather and curled up, fast asleep before they had even exited the parking lot.

W

Cities flashed by the Impala's windows but Sam barely noticed. All he could think about was Dean and Dad and what he could do to make them proud of him.

If all I ever do is research then I'll be the best researcher ever! I'll hack into off-limit files and talk to people so they'll trust me, get to know libraries like the back of my hand!

Sam grimaced slightly, he didn't want to be stuck shifting through books and newspapers and articles on computers, he wanted to hunt like his Dad and Dean could!

He felt more like a sidekick than an actual hunter. Even if he knew that research was just as much a part of hunting as going out and killing the monster was.

W

They stopped in South Bend, Indiana at exactly nine a.m. for breakfast. John wanted to get to Akron as quickly as possible so all they did was go up to a McDonald's Drive-Thru window and grab coffees and McMuffins.

Sam wolfed his breakfast down gratefully; John may not care about eating three meals a day but Sam wasn't used to missing his lunch and dinner, like he had the day before.

The silence in the car was almost oppressive. If Dean was with them he'd be chatting away to their father about the latest case, picking on Sam or playing some stupid game like I Spy with him to keep him entertained.

Sam wished John would turn on the radio just to have the background noise.

Maybe I should ask him about the case, Sam thought; let him know I'm interested.

The boy cleared his throat and spoke quietly, "Who's been dying in Akron?"

John didn't reply right away, he stared at his youngest son in the rearview mirror as though trying to decide if he should talk.

"Three couples were robbed and murdered in their homes, they all had kids at the local junior high school who are missing now," John informed him.

Sam's mouth opened in shock, "How do you know it's a shifter then?"

"The only fingerprints found at the crime scenes belonged to the families, the only fingerprints found on the safes, jewelry boxes and wallets belonged to the kids," John explained, "So unless all the teens in Akron have decided to rob and kill their parents, then I'm sure it's a shifter."

Sam nodded.

"How do we find it?" Sam ventured. He didn't know if his father would even want his help looking for the shifter but he had to ask.

"I think it's kidnapping the kids- pretending to be them for a few weeks and then killing the parents," John answered, "I'm going to enroll you into the school there and you'll have to find it that way."

Sam stared at his father- go to a school where any of the kids might be the shapeshifter? Was he crazy?

"How will I know which kid it is?" Sam asked, he couldn't very well go up to every student with a silver knife and cut them with it to see if they reacted.

"You'll figure it out," John answered, not helpful at all.

Sam didn't say anything else. He stared out the window as Toledo, Ohio passed them by.

W

Lunch was handed out of another Drive-Thru window- hamburgers- but Sam did not complain. He knew that his father would not be impressed with any comment he made.

He really could have cared less about what food he ate. Sam was worried. He didn't know how his father expected him to find the shapeshifter.

If that's even what it is, Sam thought glumly as he took a bite of his burger.

They would arrive in Akron a little under an hour and the closer they came to the city, the more nervous Sam grew.

He hated moving all the time, always being the new kid in school but he knew it was necessary. Dean was the one with a passion for learning. Yes, he was a good hunter, but Dean was an A student, sometimes A+ and he seemed to breeze through school easier than Sam did. While his brother got straight As, Sam managed to squeak by with Bs and Cs. It wasn't that Sam didn't like school, he liked learning but he also understood that he was a hunter first and foremost and he often became conflicted between the two. He tried to be the best hunter he could while juggling schoolwork, not an easy task when Sam was often bogged down with researching for a hunt.

Sam wasn't about to fall into any delusions of grandeur about this new hunt. He knew that his Dad was still royally pissed at him for what had happened in Wisconsin and he would have to tread carefully, do exactly as his father told him and not fuck things up again.

W

Father and son arrived in Akron at half past one in the afternoon, about the same time everyone working was rushing out for their lunch break. John maneuvered the long, black car through the traffic, eyes searching expertly for the first motel to come into view.

Sam slid into the door as the Impala turned sharply and peered out to see John had driven into the parking lot of the Summit Motel.

While John went to get them a room Sam stayed in the car. He peered out at the other cars in the parking lot and bit his lip. He missed his brother.

Sam jumped when the front door opened and John slipped into his seat.

"The junior high is a few blocks from here," John said as he drove to his designated parking spot.

"Can we call Dean tonight?" Sam asked tentatively from the backseat.

"We'll see," His father spoke in a distracted tone and Sam was sure John hadn't even been paying attention to the question.

Sam didn't say anything else as his father ordered him out of the car and stood on the curb while John grabbed their bags.

The boy peered somewhat despondently at the motel. He saw the main office was a grey-brick building with a black shingle roof. The grey brick continued to form the exterior of the motel rooms, each with a dark green door and a brass number set in the middle.

John and Sam had room 2B, not the last room, as John preferred and that seemed to affect his mood badly.

Sam's father shoved open the door and looked around the room with a critical eye. He dumped their luggage on the floor and turned to his son.

"C'mon," he gestured to the still-open front door.

Sam, who had just sat down on one of the two beds, looked at John in slight confusion.

"We're going to the library," John told him and Sam slipped off the bed.

"Why do I have to come?" Sam asked. He was obviously way too young to pretend to be a Federal agent or a police officer.

"You need to know who you're going to school with," John told him and locked the motel door behind them.

W

The library, although large, was nearly empty; Sam wasn't surprised and John was quite pleased.

While his father shifted through local papers, looking for any and all information on the recent murders barring a trip to the police station, Sam hacked into the junior high school's computer system and pulled up the student files.

Sam stared at the faces of the boys and girls that made up the students of Ulysses S. Grant Junior High School.

He wondered which of the kids were the missing ones. He squinted at the screen as if by doing so he'd be able to see the shapeshifter in the guise of a pre-teen.

Sam peered up over the top of the large, grey computer as someone nearby coughed. He peered at the library's sparse visitors before turning back to his work.

Sam spent the next two hours trying to commit the faces of the students to memory and wondering how he was going to be able to tell the shifter from the real students.

He sighed in relief when he heard John bark out that it was time for them to leave. Sam hoped his father had more luck in research than he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Rise Against song.


	6. 409 In Your Coffeemaker

Sam stared down at his breakfast- John had taken them to the diner across the road- and could have felt less like eating. His pancakes were getting soggy by now but Sam couldn't have tried to swallow them for the lump in his throat.

Sam always hated the first day at a new school; never sure of the reception he would receive. Usually Dean would be with him, walking beside him and giving his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze before they parted ways for the day; but Dean was not with them now. Dean was miles away in Minnesota and Sam would have to face the new school alone.

Sam sighed and pushed his plate away. His Dad didn't seem to notice, he continued to read his newspaper and sip from a mug of black coffee.

"Are you finished, sweetie?" The waitress asked Sam and he nodded as she took his plate away. Sam blushed and looked away from the waitress- an older woman with graying brown hair and laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth- and pointedly stared out the window as she offered to top off John's mug of coffee.

Sam's father was going to spend the day talking to the local police, taking a look at the crime scenes and getting witness statements from the neighbours.

The boy couldn't help but fidget as he waited for his father to finish. Sam checked his watch and saw that it was already eight ten- school started at eight thirty- and he didn't want to draw attention to himself by being late.

"Um, Dad," Sam began, "School starts in twenty minutes."

John set his paper down and gulped the rest of his coffee. He took his wallet out and slipped a few bills underneath his saucer.

"C'mon then," John stood, noticing that his son hadn't moved, and grabbed his jacket, "I thought you were worried about being late."

Sam slipped out of the booth after his father and silently followed him out of the diner.

W

Panting, Sam pushed open the blue-painted double doors to the junior high and moved through the crowded hallway. He'd ran all the way but he'd made it at least.

Sam stared down at the slightly crumpled paper in his hand- it was his schedule and the secretary had penned the combination for his locker on it as well- and stared at the unfamiliar student body surrounding him.

"Excuse me-" Sam began asking a boy closest to him but the kid turned away and began talking to someone else.

"Uh, can you help-" Sam tried again, asking a blond-haired girl this time but she just giggled at him from behind her hand and ignored him.

Sam's shoulders slumped; what was he doing here? He didn't belong in school, not really, he was a hunter and he shouldn't be acting like some nerdy kid.

Dad needs you to find the shapeshifter, Sam reminded himself, Dad thinks it's one of these kids and you're the only one who can prove that.

Sam jumped as the bell rang out and the crowd thinned, students grumbling and shuffling off to their homerooms.

He made his way silently through the deserted halls, intent on finding his locker first.

"Hey! What are you doing out here? You should be in class," a voice behind Sam made him turn sharply.

He saw a round, older woman with gray hair held up in a tight bun and keen blue eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. Her high-heeled shoes clacked noisily on the floors as she made her way toward Sam.

"I'm sorry, I was trying to find my locker," Sam apologized and held his schedule out to the woman.

Her expression softened when she took the paper from Sam and squinted at it through her spectacles. She clicked her tongue and handed the schedule back.

"Your locker's on the second floor," she told him, "Just go up that flight of stairs and it should be at the end of the hall to the left."

Sam nodded, "Uh, thank you Miss…"

The woman smiled in a friendly way, "Mrs. Gates. I'm the guidance councilor."

Sam nodded again, "I better go… don't want to be late."

"Feel free to stop by and see me anytime," Mrs. Gates offered and Sam made a mental note to stay away from the woman.

It wouldn't do him any good to get too familiar with the staff, Sam knew, and even less for him to become friends with her.

Sam found his locker exactly where Mrs. Gates said it would be. He slipped his backpack off his shoulders and shoved it into the narrow space. He checked his watch and saw it was now eight forty! He might as well skip homeroom this morning, no point in going to class only to be late on his first day.

Sam headed toward the boys' bathroom and sat in the stall until he heard the bell ring for second period. He sighed and stood.

Just about to open the stall door he paused when he heard someone enter the bathroom. Sam knew he should just leave, no one would know him anyway but something told him to stay.

Two sets of footfalls sounded on the tiled floor and two distinctly different voices began to speak.

"Can you believe Tyrone Sullivan's parents were killed? Just like that?" The first voice, a high, reedy sounding voice spoke.

The second voice scoffed, "And now the asshole's missing? Probably whacked his own parents and ran away with all their money."

The first voice laughed, "Whacked? What're you, in the mafia or something? Man, you've gotta stop watching all those Godfather movies."

"Hey, those are great! Don't diss Don Corleone or you'll be sleeping with the fishes," the second voice imitated the character and the two laughed.

Sam waited until the duo had left before leaving the stall.

Tyrone Sullivan. That was one of the kids in Sam's own grade. Sam knew he was failing his classes and he'd been sent to the principal's office numerous times for bullying other students.

So he was some snobby brat, Sam thought, doesn't mean he had to die though.

Sam hoped that the kid wasn't dead. Tyrone's parents were dead but he was still missing so there was no way to know exactly what the shapeshifter had done with the boy after it had finished using him.

Sam stared at himself in the mirror. He looked pretty unremarkable, he guessed. His chestnut-coloured hair was a little too long for his father's liking, the light in his green eyes was perhaps a little too mature for someone his age and he was frowning. His clothes were a little too big on him- hand-me-downs from Dean- and a few years out of date.

Yeah, if there was a shapeshifter stalking the rich kids of Ulysses S. Grant Junior High, it would not be attracted to Sam at all.

My clothes practically scream 'I'M POOR!', Sam thought with mixed feelings.

W

Sam was introduced to the students in his second period class as Sam Westfield- a pseudonym his father had thought up when he'd enrolled his son- and told to pick any seat he liked.

Sam didn't pay attention as the teacher droned on and on about the geography of India. Instead, he surreptitiously studied all the kids in his class.

He could easy point out which ones were the nerds, the jocks, the popular girls, the loners, the losers, etc.

It always amazed Sam how all the kids, in every school he'd ever been to, seemed to fit into neat little categories, like they were different species or something.

And I fill in the New Kid spot nicely, Sam thought glumly.

W

Sam followed the rest of the herd down the hall to the cafeteria. He wasn't looking forward to lunch. He had no money and John hadn't bought anything that Sam could eat at school. Sam looked at the kitchen area longingly for a moment, his stomach grumbling to remind him that he had barely eaten his breakfast, and made his way to an empty table to wait until the next period started.

"Hey," a voice startled Sam a little and he looked up to see a boy had come to sit at his table.

"This seat's not taken is it?" the boy asked and chuckled at his own joke.

"Uh, no, go ahead," Sam said without much interest.

The boy sat and put a large paper bag on the table. Sam watched him curiously. The boy brought out four sandwiches, an apple, a banana, three granola bars and a bottle of Gatorade.

The boy saw Sam staring and he shook his head, embarrassed.

"It's my Dad, he's trying to bulk me up so I can play football in high school like my brother," he explained.

"Oh," Sam replied.

The boy didn't look like he could be a football player; he was short, shorter even than Sam, with light blond hair that stuck up in spikes with gel and watery blue eyes.

"You're the new kid, right?" the boy asked, unwrapping the cellophane from a crust-less roast beef sandwich.

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

"I'm Russell," the boy answered and to Sam's surprise, slid two of his sandwiches over to him.

"Go ahead, I never eat everything anyway," Russell shrugged.

"Thanks," Sam muttered and took the plastic-wrap off one of the sandwiches.

"So, new kid, you got a name?" Russell asked as he munched away.

"Sam," he answered and took a bite of his sandwich- tuna fish- and began eating gratefully.

Russell nodded, "Where are you from, Sam?"

Sam swallowed, "Wisconsin," he answered; using the last state his family had hunted in as his home.

W

Sam walked back to the Summit Motel after school had let out, feeling somewhat better about the current hunt.

Russell was a really nice guy and he knew everything about everyone in the school. He had been really chatty during lunch but he hadn't asked Sam too many questions and that had endeared him to the youngest Winchester.

Sam found that he couldn't wait to see Russell the next school day, not only because he might know something about the rich kids, but because he was really friendly and God knew friends were in short supply for the Winchesters.

The Impala was sitting in its parking spot in front of the room. Sam's shoulders slumped slightly; he'd hoped that his father would still be out interviewing witnesses when he got home.

Sam pushed open the door and saw John seated at the small table, papers strewn across it. John's hands were gripping his dark hair and his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Hey Dad," Sam greeted his father softly.

John looked up, "Close the door."

Sam set his backpack on his bed, "I think I found something."

"What?" John's interest suddenly peaked with news about the case.

"I met this guy, he knows practically everyone at the school and he may be able to help us figure out who the shapeshifter will go after next," Sam explained quickly.

John stared at his youngest son for a moment, "You were not actually looking for the shifter though?"

Sam lifted his chin defiantly, "No, but I-"

John shook his head, "I gave you one job, Sammy, one job. And what was that?"

"Look for the shapeshifter?" Sam offered.

"And instead you go off socializing!" John exclaimed, "Damn it, Sam!"

Sam bit his lip.

"I wasn't socializing! I was trying to find out about the victims!" Sam argued, his voice becoming high-pitched with his irritation.

John shook his head, "I don't want to hear it, Sam."

"You never listen to me! How am I supposed to know who the shapeshifter is? Huh? Stab every kid there with a silver blade or bring a huge camera around and see if I can capture an eye-flare?" Sam demanded; his anger overwhelming his sense of caution.

John stood up so fast the chair he'd been sitting in, fell back with a clatter. He pointed one thick finger in his son's face.

"You watch your tone, boy," John warned and Sam backed down.

Sam hesitated for a moment, unsure if his father was going to continue. John just shook his head and turned back to his papers. Sam took a deep breath and pulled his notebooks from his backpack; he might as well do homework and wait for his Dad to fill him in on what he had found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Green Day song.


	7. Father and Son

"The only connection I found between the victims is that they are all members of the same country club," John told Sam after about a half hour had passed.

Sam had not spoken in the span of those thirty minutes; giving his father time to calm down.

The boy looked up from his sociology homework.

"I even drove over and spoke with some people there," John continued.

Sam's eyebrows rose, he was surprised that his father had even been allowed to set foot inside a place like that. Maybe he'd just claimed to be FBI; surely they wouldn't deny a federal agent entry.

John stood up and handed his son a piece of paper- on it was a list of names- and explained that they were all the people who went to the club and had children at Grant Junior High.

"There's more than a dozen names here! How do we know who's next?" Sam asked. His father had highlighted the surnames of the three families who'd already fallen victim to the shapeshifter but they appeared in no apparent order.

"That's where you come in, Sam," John pointedly stared at his son.

"You go to school with these kids… talk to them-" John began but Sam couldn't help the sarcastic laughter the bubbled up.

"Talk to them? Dad, to those kids I'm practically invisible!" Sam exclaimed and hoped that his father would not become angry with him again.

John scowled, "Sam, you need to find out who the next target is!"

"I understand that, Dad-" Sam tried but John interrupted.

"I don't want to hear excuses, Sam, just do your job," John snapped at his youngest son.

"Don't even know what my job is," Sam muttered rebelliously.

John grabbed Sam by the shoulders, "Do as I say, boy!"

Sam stared wide-eyed at his father. He was used to John yelling at him, berating him but his father hardly ever laid a hand on him, even in companionship… at least not since he had been very young.

John released his son, "Why can't you just listen to me?"

Sam didn't reply. He hunched his shoulders; his homework forgotten. Vaguely, he wondered if his father had been drinking before he'd come home from school.

Sam knew he was a disappointment to his father; John wasn't shy about letting Sam know it either but the boy tried to make him proud, damn it!

"Okay, Dad, I'll find the shifter's next victim," Sam said quietly.

John nodded as if he'd been waiting for his son to say that all along. Sam folded the list of names into a small square and put the paper in his pocket.

W

Sam knew that the case was hinging on what he found out. He knew that it was his sole responsibility to find the shapeshifter and perhaps even lead his father to it. Sam felt like his Dad was setting him up for failure though. Sam knew that if John had a choice, he would be the one up at Pastor Jim's and Dean would be helping him out with this hunt.

Maybe this is my second chance, Sam thought until it became a kind of mantra; this is my chance to make things up to Dad and Dean.

But in reality, Sam knew better. He could tell by the look on his father's face that as soon as Dean was well enough, Sam would be back to researching and spending hours alone while his brother and Dad went on hunts.

No! I can't think that way, Sam reasoned, I'll find the shifter and Dad will see I'm as good a hunter as Dean!

Sam peered over at his father, noting that he was still seated at the tiny table, papers still strewn out before him but now he had a bottle of beer in his hand.

It was growing late- the wall clock read a quarter to six- but Sam didn't say anything to John even though his stomach was rumbling hungrily.

Dad's probably forgotten about dinner; Sam thought, not surprised; Dean was usually the one to remind John that meals didn't come in a bottle.

W

Finally John heaved a frustrated, exhausted sigh and gathered all the papers into a pile; stacking them somewhat haphazardly and stood with a groan.

Sam looked up at his father to see John checking his watch and squint at the slightly parted curtains obscuring most of the view from the motel window.

"Let's go, Sam," John said and began pulling his boots on.

Sam scrambled up from his bed and eagerly slipped on his sneakers, pausing to do up the laces as quickly as possible- he knew that his Dad hated waiting around- and grabbed his coat on the way out.

The boy followed his father out of their room and walked behind him as the elder made his way across the street, dodging a taxi as he went past, eyes locked on the red-and-blue flashing OPEN sign in the window of the diner they'd eaten breakfast at.

The restaurant was virtually empty except for employees. There was one waitress mopping up in one corner of the dining area and a cook leaning against the counter, flipping through what looked like a Playboy magazine.

The waitress looked up, "I'm sorry, sir, but we're about to close up."

Sam turned to leave but his father just ignored the girl and sat down in a booth.

The waitress watched as the man's son slid into the seat across from him and gave her an apologetic look.

"Arnie, can you get the grill and fryers fired-up again?" the waitress asked and set the mop aside, moving to the counter as she spoke and grabbed a couple of menus.

The cook, Arnie, looked royally pissed and grumbled, straightened his white apron and moved into the kitchen.

The waitress turned on her 'there-are-customers-here-so-look-happy' smile and walked over to the Winchesters.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" The waitress asked, looking like she hoped they'd just order drinks and leave.

"Coffee," John practically demanded of the girl. Sam peered around her and saw that the three coffee makers and pots were all sparkling clean, ready for the breakfast rush in the morning.

"And for you?" the waitress, who's nametag read 'Polly', asked Sam.

"Milk, please," Sam asked and Polly smiled.

"I'll be right back," she said and headed off to the kitchen.

John flipped through his menu and Sam followed suit. His stomach grumbled hungrily and he peered down at the list of generic diner food he could choose from.

Sam smiled at the waitress when she returned with their drinks.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked and plastered a smile onto her face.

John set his menu aside, "Two orders of burgers and fries."

"Okay," the waitress wrote the order on her note-pad, "Anything else?"

Sam's father shook his head. The waitress practically ran across the dining area to the kitchen.

Sam stared out the window and took a gulp of his milk. His Dad hadn't ordered his food for him since he was really little; Dean sometimes did because he knew it annoyed Sam to have his older brother act like he was a baby but John pretty much left Sam to fend for himself.

Sam chewed his lip as the silence between him and his father grew. John normally had nothing to say to his youngest (or nothing good, at least) and it was often Dean who took up the role of chatter-box to fill the empty gaps in conversation.

"Can we go see Dean after this job?" Sam asked quietly, hoping to be reunited his older brother as soon as possible, almost literally the glue that held the little family together.

"It will depend on how long this case takes," John answered in a way that belied the actually message- 'it will depend on how long you take to find the monster, Sam'- and took a healthy draught of coffee.

"Yes sir," Sam muttered, lowering his head so he was staring at the tabletop.

W

Sam was surprised at how quickly their meals were served- he checked his watch and saw that only ten minutes had passed- but he guessed the speed was helped by the fact that he and his father were the only two customers in the diner and the waitress and cook probably wanted to get home.

As Sam ate his burger he noticed that the waitress was hovering over them. John didn't appear to realize or if he did, he just didn't care (Sam thought it was probably the latter) and ate slowly and methodically; not about to be rushed just because a couple of kids wanted to get close up shop.

Twenty more minutes had passed before John's plate was completely empty. He leaned back and sipped at his coffee- refilled by the waitress- and watched his youngest son mop up ketchup with his French fries.

Sam looked up and saw that by the expression on his father's face that he was ready to leave. He pushed his plate away- still half-full of fries- and John took that as his cue to pay.

John fished ten dollars from his wallet- with no accompanying tip- and set it on the table before standing.

"C'mon Sam," John sounded like he was annoyed and Sam immediately followed his father out of the diner.

Once back in their motel room, John ordered Sam to go to bed even though it was only a quarter after nine. Sam didn't argue, he just slipped his shoes off and climbed into bed without changing his clothes.

Sam didn't fall asleep right away; his father went back to his research, flipping through papers and sighing tiredly at intervals. Sam heard the door of the mini fridge open and the faint click and hiss of a bottle being uncapped.

Sam hoped that by the morning his father wouldn't be so cold, he hoped he could show his Dad that he could hunt, that he wasn't useless and nothing but a liability.

Sam wished his father would just listen to him for once, like he listened to Dean. Sam wanted to know what it was that made John like Dean better than him- it couldn't just be the hunting, it had to be something else- but Sam could never seem to figure it out.

Sam wanted to be able to talk to his father without seeing the disappointment in his eyes every time. Sam wanted to tell his father that all he wanted to do was hunt monsters and save people because he really did look up to John in that regard.

How can I try to explain? Sam thought morosely; when I do he turns away again.

Sam let out a long sigh; it's always been the same, same old story. And he was so damn tired of it.

From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen; Dean and his brother had been raised like they were soldiers and that meant obeying John without question and Sam hated it.

Sam hated not being able to give his opinion in a case; that he was supposed to shut up and research.

Maybe tomorrow will be different, Sam thought, maybe tomorrow will be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) song.


	8. Alive

Sam pushed through the crowd of students, staring straight ahead, thinking only of the shapeshifter that could be any of his classmates.

Someone shoved him and Sam stumbled.

"Hey, watch it!"

"Sorry," Sam muttered, distractedly.

He made it to his locker and slipped his pack off his back, wrestling it into the narrow space.

"Hey, Sam!" the boy turned around and saw Russell moving through the crowd toward him.

"Hi," Sam greeted the other boy and smiled.

Russell leaned against a locker and ran a hand through his pale, spiky hair.

"So, you coming to Homeroom today?" he asked with a wry grin.

Sam shrugged, "I was kind of late yesterday; didn't see the point."

"Hey, that's alright, Civics with Mr. Dawson is boring as Hell; you didn't miss much, trust me," Russell assured him.

The first bell rang but neither boy moved.

"So, I was wondering, a few friends and me were gonna go down to the park after school, maybe play some basketball and, well, maybe you'd like to come along? I mean, there's only three of us and if you agreed than we could have two-on-two," Russell asked, awkwardly.

Sam really wanted to say yes, but he knew that his father would disapprove. He'd already been socializing instead of looking for the shifter and he was sure playing a few rounds of basketball after school would count as going way off the reservation.

"Sorry, I can't… but thanks anyway," Sam apologized, hoping Russell didn't see the desperately eager look on his face.

"Aw, that's alright," Russell said, "Maybe some other time."

"Yeah," Sam muttered, knowing there wouldn't be another time.

His gaze shifted. He wanted to be friends with Russell, he really did, but he knew that as soon as his Dad had killed the shapeshifter they would move again.

Sam's view traveled upward, admiring the ceiling tiles painted by the students.

"Russell?"

"Yeah?" The blond boy's gaze followed Sam's, his blue eyes confused.

"Are those cameras?" Sam pointed to a round, black half-circle in the corner where ceiling and cinderblock wall met.

"Why, do you like having your picture taken?" Russell smiled jokingly.

"I know someone who doesn't," Sam muttered to himself and pulled his backpack from his locker, not even pausing to close it as he began making his way toward the exit.

"Where are you going?" Russell called after him.

"Mr. Sullivan, I trust you are heading to Homeroom?" Sam heard Mrs. Gates call out to Russell from down the hall.

This is it! Sam thought happily as he ran out the door, this is how we'll find the shapeshifter!

W

"Dad!" Sam cried breathlessly, having run the entire way back to the motel. He couldn't have been more excited to see the Impala still sitting in its parking spot.

"Dad! Guess what I've found!" Sam pushed the motel door open and stumbled inside.

"Why aren't you at school? Did something happen?" John stood and stood imposingly in front of his son.

"Hell yeah something happened!" Sam couldn't help but smile.

"What?" John snapped.

"The school has security cameras! I think we'll be able to see the shifter on at least one of them… see the eye-flare, you know," Sam explained.

John reached out and gripped his son's shoulder, "I'll drive you back to school and talk to the principal, get a look at that footage."

Sam couldn't help but be proud of himself; John hadn't actually given any praise but Sam thought he must be happy with him. He had finally done something right.

W

Sam peered out of the Impala's rain-streaked window at the mansion-like house across the street. His father was sitting in the driver's seat, his dark eyes likewise glued to residence of Mr. and Mrs. Vern Cameron.

While watching the junior high's security footage, John had seen the shapeshifter, masquerading as Natasha Cameron, a girl in Sam's Homeroom.

Wasting no time, John had pulled Sam from his classes on the pretense of a dentist appointment. Instead, the two had gone back to their motel to prepare.

His father had insisted they watch the Cameron house because they didn't know when exactly the shifter was going to make its move. Sam had argued, not wanting to get caught snooping around outside someone's house but John had swayed his son by telling him that lives were in danger- what would happen if the shapeshifter killed the Camerons because they hadn't been there to stop it?

They had been sitting in the car for the past two hours and Sam was staring to think that nothing was going to happen- he wasn't looking forward to coming back night after night until the shifter decided to attack- when suddenly all the lights in the house went out.

"Shit," John muttered and opened the car door.

Sam scrambled out after his father.

"Let's go," John ordered and both father and son made their way silently, swiftly toward the house.

John motioned to his son and he opened the wooden fence into the backyard.

Sam barely had time to notice the manicured flower gardens; thick golf course-like lawn and in-ground pool before sliding open the patio door.

Dumb luck, Sam thought as he silently closed the door after his father.

Both Winchesters turned on their flashlights and peered around at the living room furniture.

John pressed a finger to his lips and Sam nodded.

The house was quiet- not a good sign- and Sam felt his heart begin to beat rapidly in his chest.

John pushed his son forward a little and together they walked through the quiet house.

Gripping his flashlight in one hand and gun loaded with silver rounds in the other; all Sam could think about was the hunt for the baobhan sith and how that had ended.

This will be different; Sam told himself; it has to be.

The living room was empty and so they made their way toward the kitchen. Sam froze when his sneakers squelched in something wet. Panning the beam of his flashlight down, Sam stared at a dark red pool spread along the slate floor.

Sam jumped when his father grabbed his shoulder.

John shook his head.

With his father's hand still on his shoulder, Sam was guided away from the scene.

John's flashlight beam swept across the kitchen, illuminating the body of Vern Cameron, a bullet wound in the back of his head leaking blood and grey matter.

Sam felt his stomach clench at the sight and fought hard not to puke. His hands shook, flashlight beam wobbling and gun shivering.

A sudden movement made Sam jump and John ran after it, stomping down the hallway into another part of the house.

"Dad!" Sam whispered loudly. His heart hammered in his chest, his grip slipped on his flashlight and he almost dropped it.

Sam followed his father, his footsteps light and quick.

There was a bang! and Sam's feet picked up the pace of their own accord, "DAD!"

No, no, no… not again, please; Sam begged silently as he rushed down the corridor, knocking over a spindly end-table and sending a blue and white vase crashing to the floor.

He saw his father sprawled on the carpet and the shifter duck out through a ground-floor window.

"Dad! Dad are you okay?" Sam went down on his knees beside his father. He saw blood soaking his father's shirt.

John groaned and clutched his shoulder, "Go get the shifter, Sam! Go! I'll be right behind you! Now!"

Sam leaped up dashed to the window, dropping his flashlight as he slithered through the open pane and dashed down the street, following the sounds of running footfalls in the dark.

It had begun to rain again and water splashed up to Sam's knees as he chased the monster.

Sam stopped in front of a seedy-looking alley, shaking his soaking bangs out of his eyes and tightening his grip on his gun.

He heard a low scraping sound and peered through the gloom to see a manhole cover slip back into place.

Shit, it's in the frigging sewer; Sam thought but steeled himself. He would do this; Sam would prove himself the hunter his father never thought he could be.

Sam went down on his knees and tugged at the cover. His fingers couldn't get purchase on the wet metal.

"Damn you," Sam muttered and sat back on his haunches. He wiped his forearm across his brow and leant down to try again when heavy footsteps alerted him to someone approaching.

Sam leaned back against the brick wall of a Thai food restaurant that made up one side of the alleyway, willing himself invisible.

A large figure stood silhouetted in the mouth of the alley.

"Dad," Sam hissed and John started at his son's voice.

Sam pointed a finger down at the manhole. John nodded and went down on one knee. Grunting with exertion, Sam's father shifted the cover until the opening was wide enough for Sam to wiggle through.

Sam came forward and climbed down the sewer, feet slipping precariously on the slippery metal rungs that served as a ladder for city and sanitation workers.

The light above was obscured as John made his way down after his son.

Sam's feet splashed into some unknown liquid and he squinted in the dim illumination. He wished he hadn't lost his flashlight.

The beam of John's torch cast a glow on the slime-covered walls and floor of the sewer pipe.

"Which way did it go?" John muttered, mostly to himself.

There was a fork; without being told Sam turned toward the left one, "I'll go down here."

"You see anything that isn't me, shoot it," John instructed and took off down the right tunnel at a jog.

In the gathering darkness, Sam searched through his pockets and brought out a lighter, not a great one- just a plastic Zippo lighter Dean had given him from some convenience store- and flicked it on.

The lighting was dim, Sam was barely able to see a foot in front of his nose, but at least he wasn't stumbling around blindly in a sewer.

Sam's eyes skimmed the walls and floor, worried about being ambushed. He tried to stay quiet but his already soggy sneakers squished on the cement and splashed through smelly puddles.

W

Sam checked his watch, he had been wandering around the sewer for almost twenty minutes without seeing or hearing anything.

He had to find that shapeshifter! He just had to!

"Sam!" The boy turned around at the sound of his father's voice.

"Dad, did you find it?" Sam asked as John hurried over to him.

"Yeah, it's dead," John nodded, "Let's get out of here."

Sam turned to head back the way he came when his father grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him against the wall. Sam let out a cry of surprise as his knees buckled underneath him and he skinned his hands on the cement floor.

Sam peered up at his father looming up at him, "Dad?"

"Yes, Sammy?" The shapeshifter's eyes flashed catlike in the gloom and Sam's heart skipped a beat.

"You're not Dad!" Sam gasped as the monster grabbed his collar and pulled him up, holding him against the wall.

"Well… I am now," the shapeshifter smiled.

Sam's eyes darted downward, searching hopelessly for his gun.

"Let go of me!" Sam swung his fists at the monster, catching the shifter's jaw with a right hook and felt like he'd just punched a piece of marble.

"Aw Sammy, don't you wanna know all about Daddy? Don't you want to know what Daddy really thinks of you?" The shapeshifter mocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Meat Loaf song.


	9. Scared

Kicking and punching, Sam struggled in vain, "What did you do to my Dad, you bastard?"

"Don't worry about that, Sammy, your Daddy's just taking a little nap," The shapeshifter said as if that was no big deal.

Sam tried to pry the shapeshifter's fingers away from his throat but the monster just shoved him even harder into the wall.

"If you hurt my Dad I'll kill you!" Sam threatened uselessly- he wouldn't be killing anything if he didn't get his gun.

The shapeshifter smirked, "Isn't that cute? Defending a father who doesn't give a shit about you!"

Sam didn't answer- he was too preoccupied with trying to get free of the monster, and simply glared at the creature wearing his Dad's face.

The shifter leaned close to Sam, "John doesn't love you, even a blind man could see that, Sammy boy."

"Fuck you!" Sam growled because that was the only thing he could think of to say.

The shifter pulled Sam back from the wall and slammed him into it again, "Language! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Sam gasped as his already sore back made contact with the cement again.

"Now where were we? Ah yes," the shapeshifter said as though it had forgotten what it was talking about.

"DAD!" Sam shouted out, catching the shifter off-guard for a moment, "Dad, help!"

With its free hand, the shifter covered Sam's mouth, smothering the boy's cries.

Sam's eyes widened as he tried to breathe evenly through his nose, his hands still attempting to pry the shapeshifter's fingers from his throat.

"That's better, now you're be all ears," the shapeshifter chuckled as Sam stopped fighting, struggling to just keep getting oxygen into his lungs.

The monster narrowed its eyes at the boy and Sam was unnerved at just how similar the expression was to the one his father got whenever he was displeased with something.

"You're a waste of space, Sam- a disobedient son and a terrible hunter," the shifter growled, mimicking John's voice to a T.

"You'll never amount to anything, you can barely take care of yourself!" the shifter continued, relentless.

The creature moved in even closer, so close that it's nose almost touched Sam's; the boy could smell its breath and almost gagged on the scent of beer and onions and pastrami- John's dinner before they had gone to watch the Cameron house.

The shifter broke out into a grin- a very strange expression on John's face- and pulled Sam away from the wall.

The boy now found himself held above the sludge-filled river that ran down the center of the sewer. The stench of refuse made him gag even worse than the sandwich and alcohol smell of his father's (the shapeshifter's) breath.

"You know what you are, Sam? Hm? You know what Daddy thinks every time he sees your face?" the shifter asked; Sam could feel it shaking with mirth- it was laughing at him!

"You're a mistake… you're a murderer!" the shifter crowed, "If you hadn't been born than Mommy would still be alive! If you weren't around, Daddy would be living the American Dream with dear, sweet Mary and perfect little Dean!"

Sam wanted to cry out that it wasn't true; he wanted to deny the shapeshifter's words but he couldn't.

He felt tears well up in his eyes and the monster laughed in his face, "So now you're going to cry like a little baby? Pathetic!"

The sound of a gunshot caused Sam to jump in the shifter's grip. The creature's smile faded from its face as it looked down- a bullet hole through its heart oozed blood.

The shapeshifter released Sam who tumbled into the slimy water with a belated cry of surprise and torment.

Sam thrashed, trying to pull himself out of the debris-filled liquid, fingers scrabbling against the cement sides of the sluice.

He felt a strong hand grip his wrist and pull him from the water, dripping and coughing.

John peered worriedly at his youngest son for a moment.

Sam shivered and saw a young girl about his own age standing behind his father. She had her arms folded around her mid-section and her pale face was smudged with dirt and sweat.

"Take her to the top, Sam," John instructed, "I'll deal with this," he nudged the shifter's body with the toe of his boot.

Sam looked down; shocked that the creature still looked like his Dad- it was kind of surreal actually- seeing one John dead on the ground and the other giving him orders as usual.

The boy nodded numbly and put one hand on the girl's- he realized now that she was Natasha Cameron- back and led her down the tunnel he'd come from.

"It's gonna be okay," Sam said, unsure if he was speaking to Natasha or himself.

The girl just trembled and said nothing. Her eyes were wide with fear and glazed with shock.

Sam caught Natasha whenever she stumbled- the only illumination coming from Sam's lighter- and wished that his brother was there to help guide them out onto the surface. Sam's back ached terribly and his throat throbbed from where the shifter had been strangling him. His skinned palms stung but they were the least of Sam's worries at the moment.

He managed to find a ladder leading up to the open manhole cover and breathed a sigh of relief.

The girl stared upwards with an uncomprehending expression.

"We gotta climb up these rungs," Sam gestured to the metal hand- and foot-holds set into the concrete wall.

"Oh," Natasha whispered softly and set one trembling hand on a rung.

Sam watched as the girl moved as if in slow-motion.

Definitely shock, Sam thought and moved forward to help steady her when her feet left the floor and she teetered on the ladder.

Sam climbed just behind Natasha, one hand steadying her back because he was afraid she'd fall.

Once the two of them were out of the sewer, Sam sat down, unsure of what he was supposed to do now.

The girl looked around the alley like they'd just popped up in some crack-house and Sam remembered she was one of the rich students at the school. She'd probably never ventured down any alleyway in her life, much less visited the underground world of the city's sewer system.

W

At least twenty-five minutes had passed before John's dark-haired head appeared from the manhole. Sam had been sitting at the edge of the circular opening, waiting anxiously for his father's return while Natasha leaned against the brick wall, her knees drawn up to her chin, muttering about somebody named Louis Vuitton.

John slipped the cover back into place over the sewer and peered at his youngest son.

"You forgot this," Sam held his hands out as John dropped his gun onto his palms.

Sam's face grew warm with embarrassment. They would be in pretty hot water if anybody had found the misplaced weapon.

"Sorry," Sam muttered.

"C'mon, we have to take her to the hospital and then get out of here," John indicated the girl and Sam nodded, standing slowly as his injured muscles protested the movement.

John bent down and picked up the girl as though she was a small child. The frightened teen didn't protest, instead, if anything, she curled into John's chest.

Sam followed behind his father as they walked cautiously down the street back toward the Cameron house. Red and blue lights flickered as they approached and Sam heard his father swear under his breath. He set the girl down and crouched down to her level.

"You see those lights?" Sam's Dad pointed in the distance.

Natasha, her eyes as wide as saucers, followed John's finger and nodded in affirmation.

"You need to go toward them. They're the police," John instructed, speaking softly but forcibly.

The girl didn't answer but began to walk away from the father and son.

"Dad, she's hurt; we can't just leave her alone," Sam tugged at his father's sleeve to get his attention.

"Do you want to explain to the police how we found her?" John snapped at his son, pulling his sleeve out of his son's hand.

Sam ducked his head, "No sir."

"We'll have to wait until the cops leave before we can get to the car… damn it!" John pushed his hair back from his brow and glared down at his son. Sam saw a goose egg forming on his father's temple where the shapeshifter had hit him in order to steal his likeness and incapacitate him. Sam looked away from John and didn't mention it again.

"You could have shot the shifter long before it took off down the street, Sam! What's the matter with you?" Sam's father hissed and tugged his son along with him as they ducked into the shadow cast by a two-storey brownstone house with no cars in its driveway.

Sam's lip trembled, "I thought you'd been killed."

If Dean had been with them, he'd make sure his father was alright before killing the monster, wouldn't he?

All Sam wanted to do was make Dean and Dad proud and as usual he had failed.

W

The police and paramedics left the cul-de-sac the Camerons (had) lived on, blaring sirens and flashing their lights. Sam shrank back into the shadows as the cruisers sped past his and John's hiding place.

Sam yelped when his father grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him forward.

Keeping an eye out for any cops who might have been left behind, John walked casually down the street as if he owned it. He even hummed a little as he walked, an old classic rock song that Sam couldn't put a name to, and took the car keys out as he reached the Impala.

Sam scrambled into the backseat gratefully and closed his eyes as his Dad turned the car's engine, causing the muscle car to thrum gently beneath him.

As they drove back to the motel Sam tried not to think about what the shapeshifter had said to him. He knew that shifters could not only take on a person's physical appearance but also their memories and Sam hoped to God that the monster had been lying.

Sam knew that he was not John's favourite son. He knew that he would never live up to his father's expectations and be the great hunter that his Dad wanted him to be but he couldn't be a murderer, he couldn't be a mistake!

Sam just wanted to forget the whole episode even if he knew his father would ream him for it later. He closed his eyes even before the Impala skidded into the Summit Motel's parking lot and didn't even hear as John grabbed all their gear from their room and drove off, not even bothering to check-out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Three Days Grace song.


	10. Fucking Perfect

The trip to Blue Earth didn't seem very long to Sam at all. Perhaps that was because he slept through most of it. The entire trip took fourteen hours thanks to John's non-stop, aggressive driving.

It was early evening by the time they arrived and the sky outside was tinged a reddish-orange. Shadows had grown long and thin.

Sam blinked drowsily as his father pulled the Impala into the long driveway of Pastor Jim's house. The boy's back ached something fierce and he was sure it was a mosaic of bruises but his excitement drove much of the pain away

Sam leaped eagerly from the Impala even before it had come to a full stop. Moving excitedly from foot to foot, Sam waited for his father to step out of the car.

The boy's eyes grew wide when he saw that the right sleeve of his father's jacket was dark and sticky with dried blood.

"Dad, your arm!" Sam exclaimed, having forgotten John had been injured by the shapeshifter.

"I'll get over it, Sam. I'm a big boy," John growled at his son and Sam backed away, following behind as his father headed to the front door.

Sam stood behind his father on the porch as John lifted his left fist and pounded on the glass window.

The door opened to reveal Pastor Jim Murphy, a man a head shorter than John, with sandy hair and beard and kind, dark brown eyes. He was wearing civilian clothes of blue jeans and a short-sleeved green shirt.

"John!" The Pastor was clearly surprised, "What in God's name happened to your arm?"

Before Sam's father could answer, Jim put a hand on his fellow hunter's back and led him inside.

Sam followed the two men into the house. Pastor Jim looked behind John's shoulder and mouthed 'Dean's upstairs' to the boy.

While Jim and John went into the main-floor bathroom, Sam tore up the stairs and down the hallway to the guest bedroom the boys always stayed in when their father left them with the Pastor. It was sparsely furnished with two single beds, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. A worn out area rug was settled in the doorway, covering a significant swath of the hardwood floor.

"Dean, Dean, Dean!" Sam cried and flung open the whitewashed door at the end of the hall.

Sam almost leaped onto his brother's bed but settled for standing at its side, hands fluttering around, wanting to hug Dean.

"Sammy!" Dean set the comic book down he had been reading and pulled his little brother into a tight hug.

"What are you doing here? Is Dad here?" Dean asked and Sam nodded but then spoke.

"We finished the hunt-" Sam began but then his brother cut in; his expression concerned, worry laced his voice.

"Dad took you out on a hunt? For a ghost?"

Sam shook his head, "We went down to Akron; Dad said there was a shapeshifter there."

Dean's hazel eyes turned steely, "And was there?"

Sam nodded, "Dad killed it."

Dean's brow furrowed but he leaned back against the bed's headrest. Sam thought he'd let the issue drop for now but was sure he'd talk to their Dad later.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Sam asked slowly, embarrassed.

"What?" Dean asked and then smiled, "Oh, yeah, it was nothing Pastor Jim couldn't patch up."

Sam's brother pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal clean white bandages.

"And here," Dean hiked up his shirt to show more bandages across his chest and abdomen.

Sam gasped.

"I'm thinking I'll have some pretty cool scars to show the girls," Dean smiled, trying to lighten the mood with a joke.

Sam gave a watery smile, "I'm sorry you got hurt. I'm sorry I didn't help."

"Hey, don't worry about it," Dean nudged his brother's arm with his shoulder, "You did what you could. I wouldn't have thought of going after one of those baobhan sith bitches with a rock."

Sam blinked, "You saw that?"

Dean's smile screwed up, "Nah, Dad told me."

"Oh," Sam muttered quietly, looking away from his brother.

The sound of footsteps alerted both boys and they relaxed when Pastor Jim poked his head into the room.

"Got your Dad all fixed up now; he'll be good as new in a few days as long as he rests that arm," the preacher/hunter informed them.

"That's good," Sam said although he wasn't sure if it was. He knew that his father got antsy if they stayed in one place too long and a few days at Pastor Jim's was likely to drive him up the walls. Hopefully, if they did leave soon, Dean would be with them. Sam didn't want to leave without his brother, didn't want to spend any more time alone with his father than was necessary.

"By the way, I was thinking of making some hot cocoa if you boys would be interested in some," Pastor Jim said in an offhanded way but with sparkling eyes, knowing the brother's would want some of the treat.

SPN

Sam and Dean found the Pastor sitting at his kitchen table, a mug of cocoa wrapped in his hands and two more identical mugs sitting nearby.

Sam sat down first, remembering to thank the Pastor and took a sip of the hot chocolate- complete with mini marshmallows.

"Where's Dad?" Dean put his hands on the back of his chair as he peered around.

"Getting the bags from the car, I imagine," Pastor Jim said easily, "Take a seat, Dean."

Dean didn't sit. He was pissed at his father for having taken Sam on a hunt without him. His brother could have gotten seriously hurt or killed because although John was an experienced hunter, he didn't have eyes in the back of his head.

Dean pulled his chair out and sat but didn't take notice of his steaming mug of chocolate. Sam looks like he's enjoying his, Dean thought and smiled. They only ever had enough money for the essentials when it came to food- more often than not a six-pack was also a major food group- and John never splurged for anything resembling a treat.

He noticed how his brother didn't sit back in his seat but kind of curled around his mug.

Getting back up, Dean moved a couple paces until he was standing beside his brother. Sam looked up, his green eyes showing confusion.

"What's wrong, Dean?" his brother asked, licking chocolate from his lips like a little kid.

That's because he is a little kid, Dean thought, no hunter in their right mind took on a shapeshifter with only two men! Especially not when one of those men was in fact a thirteen year old boy.

Dean reached out and lifted Sam's shirt. His brother protested feebly but then his expression turned embarrassed.

Sam's back was a mosaic of blue and purple bruises. There were patches of yellowish-green bruising that looked like they might have been from the hunt in Wisconsin.

Pastor Jim met Dean's eyes, "I'll talk to John."

Dean's hands curled into fists and he nodded. Pastor Jim would speak on the calm, rational side where Dean felt like pummeling his Dad for allowing Sam to get hurt like this.

Sam pulled his shirt back down, "It's nothing, Dean. Really, it doesn't even hurt."

"That's not the point, Sammy," Dean said, "You shouldn't have gotten hurt in the first place. Dad never should have taken you with him to hunt a shapeshifter… he should have called Bobby or somebody else, a more experience hunter."

Dean shook his head and picked up his mug of cocoa, barely tasting it as he guzzled it down.

What the hell had Dad been thinking? Dean wondered as he finished his drink in record time.

"You finished, Sammy?" Dean asked and his brother nodded, thanking Pastor Jim again for the hot chocolate and followed his brother out to the spacious backyard.

SPN

Sam's eyes were open as he listened to his father arguing with Pastor Jim downstairs. It was late- after midnight- and the two older men had chosen to have their confrontation when the boys should have been sleeping.

"Dean? Are you awake?" Sam rolled over under the covers and saw his older brother leaning his back against the bed headboard.

"Yeah," Dean whispered back to him. Sam was glad he wasn't the only one hearing the loud, aggressive conversation between his father and the Pastor.

"He's a walking disaster!" Sam heard his father shout, not even trying to be quiet.

Pastor Jim said something, too soft to be heard.

"He can't hunt! He's useless!" John insulted Sam, unaware that both sons were listening.

"No, you don't understand, I've tried- he just can't learn! He gets his ass kicked by Dean every time they spar, I can't trust him with a knife 'cause I'm afraid he'll cut his own goddamn hand off!" John growled, "The boy can't seem to hold onto any pistol I give him- he's always dropping them! How can he hunt anything if he can't keep a grip on his weapon?"

Pastor Jim replied.

"You don't even want to see him with a rifle, Jim," The boys' father answered.

"He's dangerous. Sam puts Dean and I in danger whenever we take him on a hunt," John said, "You saw what happened to his brother because he wasn't paying attention!"

Pastor Jim said something, something that obviously upset John because he snapped at his friend.

"I'm not being too hard on him! If anything I'm not being hard enough! Sam's too sensitive for his own good- must have inherited that from his mother- Mary always did have a big heart," John replied, his voice becoming less angry when he spoke of his late wife. As the Pastor spoke his piece, Sam didn't know whether to be pleased or ashamed that he had inherited his mother's sensitive nature. His father obviously thought that it was a bad attribute.

"There's no place for compassion in a hunter, Jim," John said

The Pastor said something, probably disagreeing with his friend and John just brushed him off.

"I take care of my own," John said, "I don't need any parenting tips from you."

Sam waited with a pounding heart for the argument to continue but it didn't and Sam let out the breath he'd been holding.

He looked over at his brother and saw Dean's eyes were wide open; he looked as if he was trying to hold his anger in, his body was shaking so hard.

Sam sat still for a moment and then did something he hadn't done since he was very small. He threw the covers off himself and got out of bed, padded across the hardwood floor and climbed into Dean's bed.

Sam thought his brother would protest but all he did was move over to give him more room and Sam curled against his side. Sam gave a watery smile when he felt his brother put an arm across his shoulders comfortingly.

W

Sam sat sadly in the back seat of the Impala. Dean was in shotgun and looking almost as upset as his younger brother.

John had wanted to get going as soon as possible- something about a Chupacabra in Austin, Texas- and insisted that they leave immediately.

Jim had tried to get John to stay for breakfast but Sam's father had brushed him off with a curt, "we'll get something on the road".

Sam's stomach growled and he put his arms around his middle, trying not to look like he was going to be sick.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean's concerned voice asked from the front seat.

"Yeah," Sam muttered and stared out the window as Pastor Jim's house got smaller and smaller, the hunter waving goodbye to the tiny family from his lawn.

Sam lifted one hand and gave the man a short wave before the Impala turned a corner and the house was out of sight.

Sam thought about the long drive to Texas and decided it couldn't be long enough. He didn't want John to start in on him like Sam knew his father would. Sam just wanted them to keep driving and never stop. Sam wanted to be anywhere but in the Impala at that moment. He could see his father's dark eyes in the rearview mirror and he swore he saw disgust in them.

Sam gulped and gripped his stomach, truly afraid he was going to be sick, and stared at the houses flashing past.

Music filled the car- Dean must have turned the radio on, Sam thought- and the sounds of Metallica's 'The Day That Never Comes' drowned out all thoughts.

As long as I have Dean I'll be able to get through this, Sam smiled a little, as long as Dean's with me, I won't let Dad's words get to me. I know that Dean loves me and doesn't think I'm a big screw up. And that's all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a P!nk song.


	11. Freebird

Several Months Later

Sam looked up from his TV show when he heard the familiar sound of the Impala outside.

He ran to the door and had it open even before his brother and father had exited the car.

Dean stepped inside, limping slightly and covered in sweat.

John closed the door after himself and grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge.

"Did you kill it?" Sam asked. They had spent two weeks hunting a troll that had killed several Amish children in a rural town in Pennsylvania.

"Bobby was right- a flint dagger to the heart does the trick," John commented.

Sam held back a frown. He had found out that information! John had just called Bobby to confirm it because he didn't trust his son.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Dean announced but received no response from either his Dad or brother.

John drank his beer as though he was the only person in the room.

Sam sighed and went back to his bed and turned on the TV again.

"Turn that off, Sam," John grumbled from the tiny kitchenette.

"But I was watching-" Sam began but John snapped.

"Are you deaf? Turn that off!"

Sam did as he was told and laid down on his bed, pulling the covers over his head.

He was still awake when he heard Dean leave the shower and his Dad get up and go to his room next door.

"Hey, Sammy," Sam felt the bed sink on the right side as his brother sat down, "Can you breathe under there?"

Sam pushed the blankets down, "I'm fine, Dean."

Dean didn't know what to say. Things had been like this since they'd left Pastor Jim's. John practically ignored Sam except when he wanted him to do research or was yelling at him.

He had tried to talk to their father, try to convince him to take Sam on hunts- even if they were just the routine Salt-And-Burns for ghosts- but John had apparently given up on his youngest son's abilities as a hunter.

"Get some sleep, Sammy," Dean said and ruffled his brother's dark hair, "Dad will probably want to leave tomorrow."

"Yeah," Sam muttered and rolled onto his side.

Sam closed his eyes but didn't sleep for a long, long time.

W

Sam picked at his breakfast. He wasn't really hungry. He hated eggs, why did his Dad always forget?

Or maybe he just doesn't care, Sam thought as he looked up to see John with his nose buried in his newspaper.

"Can I get you folks anything else?" The chirpy waitress asked, smiling at Dean.

"Some pancakes?" Dean asked; staring at his brother's barely touched scrambled eggs and toast.

"Dean," John said by way of warning but Dean just shook his head, "I'll pay for them myself."

"Coming right up," The waitress smiled again and left to fill the order.

John set his paper down.

"Dean, if he's not going to eat his breakfast than that's his own choice," John spoke as if Sam wasn't sitting across from them, "The boy doesn't need special treatment just because he's being moody."

"Dad, breakfast is the most important meal of the day," Dean recited with a smug grin.

John shook his head and picked up his paper again, "Fine, but don't make this routine. Sam has to learn that he's not always going to get what he wants. Life's not like that."

The waitress returned with a stack of pancakes and a bottle of maple syrup, "Here you go. Oh, and by the way, it's on the house."

She winked at Dean who gave his most charming smile, "Thanks, Sweetheart."

Dean pushed the plate toward his brother and Sam muttered his thanks, embarrassed that his brother had noticed he hadn't been eating.

Sam munched away at the pancakes- they weren't the best he'd ever had but they were pretty tasty once he'd smothered them in syrup- and didn't protest when his brother stole a couple from his plate.

"Where we heading next?" Dean asked, trying to cut the silence.

"Utah," John answered and folded his newspaper, finished with it.

"What's in Utah?" Dean asked as he mopped up the last bit of egg yolk with his toast.

"Caleb," John answered, "He called last night, wanted to see if I'd be willing to help him get rid of a hydra that's taken up residence in Great Salt Lake."

"You have to cut off its head and then seal the wounds with fire," Sam said through a mouthful of pancake.

Both Dean and John looked over at Sam.

"At least that's what it says in Greek mythology," Sam muttered, knowing his father would call Bobby anyway.

"That's actually really good, Sammy," Dean said, "I'd never think of that."

John's only comment was to tell Sam to finish eating so they could get back on the road.

SPN

Dean stretched his legs as he stepped out of the car in Ogden, Utah. The city was ten miles from Great Salt Lake and nestled the very foot of the Wasatch Mountains. Dean paused for a moment to admire the snow-capped peaks before going to the trunk of the car and grabbing the duffle bags as John stalked toward the motel's office.

"Hey, Princess, carry something," Dean handed Sam his duffle and the two boys leaned against the Impala, waiting for their father to return with a room key.

I should tell Dad after this hunt, Dean thought; thinking of the manila envelope carefully concealed in the bottom of his own duffle bag.

Dad's usually more open minded after a successful hunt.

Dean straightened up when he saw his father approaching, a room key dangling from his hand and a sour look on his face.

"What's up?" Dean asked as he fell in step with his Dad and Sam followed along behind them.

"They only had one room left available," John grumbled. They walked to the very end of the row of rooms and John pointed to a dark brown-painted door.

Dean shrugged, it wasn't the end of the world if the three of them had to share a room- they had done so before, especially when Sam and Dean were younger- and didn't really know what his father's problem was.

John unlocked the door and stepped inside to do an initial sweep of the room.

Dean pushed inside and sat his bag down on one of the two beds.

"Hm, I'll sleep on the floor," He offered, knowing that Sammy would like a bed and John probably needed one.

His Dad nodded, "I'll pull the car around."

Dean peered at his brother once John had left the room.

The kid seemed so sad, Dean noticed.

"Hey, Sammy, since it's such a nice day out, you wanna go down to the local park or something?" Dean asked and received a shrug as a response.

"C'mon Sam," Dean tried again, "I'll buy you a hotdog."

Dean smiled when his brother rolled his eyes but gave a small smile, "Okay."

The grumbling engine of the Impala told them that their Dad had returned. He set the room key on the large, black television.

The older man stepped inside but didn't settle down, "I'm meeting Caleb at the lake. I'll be back later; take care of yourselves."

With that, John took off, leaving his boys on their own.

Dean stretched his arms over his head, lacing his fingers together and grimaced as his back cracked.

"What do you say we explore a little bit?" He suggested and Sam followed his brother out the door.

W

Dean paced the upstairs hallway. He had to tell his father but he wasn't sure how.

Tough luck; Dad needs to know now; I can't wait any longer.

They had arrived in Grand Junction, Colorado six hours ago- John had wanted to leave Utah as soon as the hydra had been killed- and thanks to their Dad's help, Caleb had dispatched the monster within a span of eight days.

Dean saw that his father seemed in good spirits, a beer in one hand and pen in the other, writing in his journal.

John had found them a condemned house that seemed in good enough condition- its former occupants had been evicted and the house seized by the bank- so they could stay as long as they needed.

Dean grabbed hold on the banister in one hand, the envelope in the other and made his way downstairs.

"Hey, Dad," Dean said and John looked up from his book.

"What do you need, Dean?" His Dad asked and took a sip of his beer.

Dean swallowed, "I want to go to college."

John didn't reply; he just stared at his oldest son.

"I got a scholarship, Dad," Dean showed his father the letter, "A full-ride to Stanford."

John refused to look at the letter.

"It's in California," Dean continued.

John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Dad, please say something," Dean begged, "Talk to me."

His father took a swig of beer and scribbled something in his journal. Dean continued as though his father was listening.

"I just can't forget, Dad… I can't forget Mom; I can't forget what life was like before she died. I want to return to that normal life, you know? This life isn't for me, I'm not made for it," Dean spoke, his voice cracking as he thought about his mother.

"I'm not leaving forever you know," Dean said, "I still want to see you guys."

"You're not alone, Dad," Dean concluded, "You've got Sam. Give him a chance, you know, he might surprise you."

John just nodded mutely and refused to look at his son.

"I'm leaving tonight," Dean said, "There's a Greyhound station not far from here… I've already got a ticket to Palo Alto."

Dean realized that his father wasn't going to say anything and so he headed back upstairs. He stopped when he saw his little brother standing on the stairs.

"Dean?" Sam asked; his voice wavering.

"Sammy-" Dean began but his brother ran up the stairs, shoes pounding on the stripped wood floor.

Damn it, Dean cursed, and headed after his brother.

He opened the door to their shared bedroom and saw Sammy sitting on his bed, tears shining in his eyes.

"Why are you leaving?" Sam asked as he stared accusingly at his brother's stuffed duffle bag.

"I'm going to school, Sammy," Dean said softly, "I'm going to get an education."

"Why?" Sam asked, "You need to stay here!"

Dean shook his head, "I'm sorry, Sammy, but I'm no hunter, not like Dad."

He went over to his bed and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He reached out to ruffle his brother's dark hair and Sammy pulled back.

"Take me with you, Dean! Please!" Sam begged.

Dean's heart skipped a beat, "I can't Sammy; you're not old enough."

Dean turned and left the room. Don't lose your nerve now, Dean; he told himself, if you do you'll never leave this life.

He heard his brother following him, sniffling, and was sure Sam was glaring daggers into his back.

Dean didn't see his father. He walked down the hall and opened the front door. It was raining outside but Dean didn't care.

"If you walk out that door, Dean," John's voice startled his son. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding another beer in his hand, "Don't you ever come back."

Dean didn't even look at his father, he just yanked open the screen door and stepped outside.

Walking down the street, Dean told himself that it was for the best. He didn't belong on the road; he'd be happier at school, with regular people… with a regular life. Besides, Dad had Sam after all… despite what he might think, the kid was a hunter. Sam knew nothing else besides hunting and with Dean out of the picture, John was sure to realize that and pretty soon he'd get over Dean's absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Lynyrd Skynyrd song.


	12. Far Cry

John Winchester stared at the spot where his oldest son had stood only moments before. The beer forgotten in his grip, threatening to slip from his lax fingers.

Suddenly John threw the bottle at the closed door; glass shattering and beer splattering.

He can't do this to me! He can't! John thought frantically.

How can he just walk out on me!? John ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the door.

"Fine, that's fine," John muttered as he wandered back into the living room where he had been writing in his journal, "If he doesn't want to be part of this family anymore, that's his choice."

John paced the living room. His son was gone. That was it, he was never coming back.

"He's dead," John said aloud, "Dean is dead."

John knew that he would never again mention his eldest son's name. Dean had betrayed him, betrayed his mother and for that, John would erase every memory of his oldest son from his mind.

Peering at his journal, John decided he could go for another beer.

SPN

Sam watched his brother from the upstairs window. He longed to call out to Dean but the window was nailed shut.

He couldn't believe that his brother was leaving him.

Sam put one palm against the cool glass of the pane and felt hot tears leak down his face.

He turned away from the window when he lost sight of his brother at the end of street and climbed onto his bed.

Sam stared at his brother's empty bed and sighed, wiping his face clandestinely before lying down on his back.

He tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat but failed. Hot tears flooded his eyes and leaked down his temples onto the pillowcase beneath his head; Sam didn't try to stop them.

Sam sat up suddenly when he heard the sound of his father's heavy boots on the stairs.

He wiped his sleeve across his face and stared at his Dad as he came into the room.

John sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. Sam didn't say anything. John's gaze was far away and he didn't look at his son.

"He's gone, Sammy," John whispered, "It's just the two of us now."

Sam bit his lip to keep fresh tears from spilling from his eyes. John reached out and put one hand on Sam's head, carding through his son's hair the way he had done when Sam had been an infant.

"Dad," Sam whispered and trembled at the rare sign of affection his father was displaying.

John didn't respond, he just continued to run his fingers though his son's longish hair.

"Dad," Sam tried again, "I know Dean-"

Sam gasped in pain as his father grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head back.

"Don't you ever say his name in front of me again! Do you understand?" John growled at his youngest. He had been drinking; Sam could smell beer on his breath.

Tears of pain welled up in Sam's eyes, "Y-yes."

"Stop whimpering!" John snarled and released his son. Sam inched away from his father, still sniffing and began wiping his face.

"He's gone and all I'm left with is you!" John stood and peered down at Sam. The boy could see disappointment in his father's gaze.

"Dad, please-" Sam began but John turned away from Sam and slammed the bedroom door on his way out.

Against his better judgment Sam scrambled off his bed and followed his father down the stairs.

"Dad," Sam tried getting his attention, "Dad, please… what do you want from me?"

John stomped into the living room and grabbed his journal before turning to his son, "I want you to get out of my sight."

Sam froze and watched as his father stalked away from him.

He's drunk, Sam thought, too much beer and Dean leaving was a bad mix.

He'll be better in the morning, Sam assured himself, he'll have a hangover but he'll be his usual bad-tempered self

The truth was, Sam was terrified of the John Winchester he'd gotten a glimpse of earlier, and hoped that he would never return.

W

Sam didn't bother asking where they were going. He just stared at the other cars they passed on the highway.

He wondered where Dean was. He wondered if his brother was in California already.

Sam peeked at his father's expression in the rearview mirror. John's eyes were bloodshot and his complexion was pale. Sam had wisely refrained from speaking to his father as they packed up the Impala and still they had not exchanged one word between them.

Sam wished his father would turn on the radio so they at least had something to listen to other than the oppressive silence of the car.

W

Six hours later they arrived in Carbon, Wyoming- a small, unincorporated town a few miles west of Rawlins. It was hardly big enough to be called a town- more like a village- only housing about five hundred people in all. The streets were nearly deserted except for empty soda and beer cans rolling around in the gutters and loose newspaper pages fluttering in the arid wind.

"This place has seen better days," Sam heard John mutter from the front seat.

John pulled into the parking lot of a dust-covered, wind-blown motel that looked as tired as the rest of the town's buildings.

"Stay in the car," John said as he opened the Impala's door, "I mean it, Sam."

Sam peered out at the flashing neon OPEN sign in the motel office's big, dirty front window.

The sidewalk was strewn with crushed cigarette butts and old chewing gum. On the other side of the road a white-haired farmer in coveralls shuffled past the silent buildings.

A tap on the Impala's window startled Sam and John slid into his seat.

His father didn't speak as he drove to the parking spot before an off-white door with a black number 12 painted on it.

Putting the car in park, John got out and went to the trunk. Sam followed, feeling the hot wind ruffle his hair as he peered into the trunk and grabbed his duffle bag.

John locked the car and unlocked the motel door. The room was tiny and dirty. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, the beds were haphazardly made, and there were stains on the carpet.

Sam grimaced. Normally his father would at least try to stay away from motels that looked like they rented by the hour.

John dumped his luggage onto one of the beds and stretched.

The trill of a cell phone caused John to fish around in his duffle bag. He peered at the caller ID and put the device to his ear.

"Hello?" John asked and paused for a moment before closing the phone and throwing it on the bed.

"Who was that, Dad?" Sam asked. He was still standing in the doorway.

"Nobody," John snapped.

"Was it De-" Sam began but stopped when John strode forward and grabbed his son's arm tightly.

"What did I tell you last night? Are you so stupid you've already forgotten?" John hissed as he twisted Sam's arm.

The boy cried out in pain, "I'm sorry!"

John growled and Sam thought that his arm was going to pop out of his shoulder if his father continued.

Sam's father let him go and Sam sat down heavily, nursing his throbbing arm.

"I'm going out," John said as he stepped over his son, "Clean the weapons while I'm gone."

The door slammed behind John but Sam could have cared less. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to control his breathing until the pain subsided.

After a while Sam pulled himself up and went into the bathroom. The sink had rust stains coursing from the tap to the drain and the bathtub was discoloured by calcium.

Sam peered at his reflection in the spotty mirror and pulled his shirt off over his head. The skin of his arm had red marks just above the elbow and careful prodding with his fingers told Sam that they would turn into bruises.

Sam gave a watery sigh and put his shirt back on. He looked at himself once again before returning to the main room and laying down on the other bed.

He closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep before his father came back.

W

Sam gritted his teeth as John shook him.

"I ask you to do one thing!" John shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, "And you deliberately ignore me!"

"Dad! I'm sorry," Sam cried, trying to pry his father's hands off his arms.

"I don't want to hear it, Sam!" John snapped, "I'm tired of your apologies!"

Sam could smell whiskey on his father's breath; see it in his father's bloodshot, glazed eyes.

"Why can't you do what you're told? Huh? Are you an idiot?" John accused.

"No! I'm not," Sam argued, "Please, Dad, you're hurting me!"

Suddenly John blinked and his hands dropped from Sam's arms. He stared at his cowering son for a moment. John ran his hands through his dark, sweaty hair and took a deep breath.

"Oh God, Sammy," He whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It was an accident."

Sam watched as his father stared at his hands for a moment before clenching them into fists, "I'm so, so sorry Sam."

"I- Its okay, Dad," Sam whispered, "I'm alright."

John turned away from his son and stumbled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Sam slumped against the wall. His shoulders shook as he fought back tears. He slid down until he was sitting with his legs out before him.

It was an accident, it was an accident; Sam thought, Dad said he was sorry. It wouldn't happen again.

SPN

Sam was sleeping by the time John exited the bathroom. He stared at his son for a moment- curled up in a ball under the covers of questionable cleanliness- and sighed deeply. What had happened to his little boy? When had his youngest son changed so much? John wondered as he sat down on the end of his own bed and slipped his boots off.

John went over to his son's bed and put his hand on his sleeping child's head. Sam moved into the touch but continued sleeping.

Turning away, John switched off the lights in the room and got into his own bed.

Instead of falling asleep though, John found himself staring at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock.

He had caught wind of a Cihuateteo killing children in a hospital in New Mexico that could be taken care of with a Salt-And-Burn but there was also something that sounded like a Black Dog up in Casper that needed to be dealt with as well.

I'll call Bobby, John decided; give him a heads-up on the Black Dog than go down to Socorro. Sam will do better with a ghost than a spectral dog anyway. All he needs to do is help me dig up some bones and pour the accelerant. Even he can handle that.

John ground his teeth, hoping his son wouldn't fuck up another hunt.

Gotta teach him how to be a real goddamn hunter, John thought, or he's not gonna last one day out there by himself.

Satisfied that he had made the right decision, John closed his eyes and fell promptly fell asleep.

W

Sam opened his eyes and sat up. He looked over at his sleeping father before quietly climbing out of bed and going into the bathroom. The overhead light flickered when Sam turned it on and pulled his shirt off.

Dark purple bruises covered his upper arms, looking conspicuously like finger marks. Sam gulped and once again told himself that it was an accident; his Dad had been drinking too much.

Shouldn't have made him mad like that, Sam thought, should have remembered to clean the weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a song by Rush.


	13. Black Night

"You almost done?" John's voice floated down to Sam as his son dug the end of the spade into the hard-packed earth again

"Almost," Sam panted and wiped a sleeve over his sweaty brow. He quickly checked his watch and saw it was a little after two a.m.

John had decided that Sam should be the one to exhume to body; it would be easier for John to pull him out of the grave than the other way around. And John didn't really trust his young son with a firearm.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief when the tip of the shovel clunked against the wooden lid of the casket.

"I got it!" He called up to his father.

"Finally," John muttered and knelt down to help his son up.

Once Sam had pried the lid off the casket to reveal the skeletal remains of the woman who had become a Cihuateteo, he reached out and grabbed hold of his father's outstretched hand.

The woman, Blanca Diaz, had been a nurse in a tiny hospital in Socorro, New Mexico but had died shortly after the birth of her daughter and had turned into a ghost-like creature that stole children to replace her own lost infant.

Sam peered down at the dry, brown skeleton lying in the plain wooden coffin. The remains of a white dress hung on the bones and wisps of black hair still clung to the grinning skull.

John nudged his son and handed him the can of gasoline as he began spilling salt into the open grave.

Sam took a deep breath when the wind picked up, and looked around as a screaming, keening sound rose with it.

"Dad," Sam said nervously and inched closer to his father.

"We're almost finished," John muttered in an annoyed tone.

"Dad!" Sam shouted as the image of a woman in a white dress appeared on the other side of the grave. Her long black hair floated in the wind and her skeletal face seemed to leer at the Winchesters. Eagle-clawed hands flexed in anticipation.

"Shit!" John shouted, dropping the salt on the ground and reaching for his gun filled with salt-rounds.

A loud bang! sounded and the Cihuateteo dissipated.

"The gas, Sam! Pour the gas!" John shouted at his son as he shot another round of salt at Blanca Diaz who was now standing only meters away from them.

Sam fiddled with the lid, trying to twist it off quickly.

He jumped when his father went flying into a gravestone and dropped the can, spilling accelerant on the ground.

Scrambling to pick up the canister, Sam went down on his hands and knees, knowing the gasoline was useless anyway without a spark to ignite it.

Sam yelped in pain as claws raked at his back. He grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it out behind him.

A cold hand wrapped around Sam's ankle and pulled him back.

No, no, no, Sam thought frantically as his hands swept the ground, searching for something, anything to use as a weapon.

The tips of Sam's fingers brushed something small and square and cold. A lighter! Dad's lighter!

Sam reached out as far as his hand could stretch, ignoring the spirit tugging on his leg and grinned as his fingers wrapped around the lighter.

Must have fallen from Dad's pocket when he got hit, Sam thought and flicked the lid open.

He was a few feet away from the gravesite, hopefully close enough to toss the lighter into the hole.

The grip on Sam's ankle tightened, deadly nails digging into his leg as he fought to get a flame going.

A terrible screech filled the air as a tiny spark flicked from the flint and Sam threw the lighter, praying it would land in the grave.

Sam felt the Cihuateteo release his leg and scream as flames licked at the dried bones. Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw Blanca Diaz begin burning, flames scorching her feet before moving upward, growing until she disappeared completely in a burst of sparks.

Sam lay down on his belly, exhausted but proud of himself. He actually did it!

He heard a groan from nearby and sat up, seeing John coming to. Sam's father rubbed the back of his head and stood shakily.

Sam got to his feet, brushing dust from his shirt and pants, grimacing at the blood coating the cuff of his jeans and the top of one sneaker.

SPN

John looked from his boy to the bonfire that had once been the earthly remains of a woman.

"You lost the gasoline," John snapped, pointing at the red container sitting on its side, its contents soaked up by the greedy desert soil.

He saw Sam's smile falter and disappear altogether.

John clenched his hands into fists but sighed deeply, "Goes without saying that something would happen."

Sam couldn't have one uneventful hunt, could he? Even a ghost hunt always went array somehow.

John bent down and grabbed the gas can and shovel. Sam picked up the container of salt and the gun.

Once they were back in the car, John took a cigarette from the pack in his jacket, put it in his mouth and patted his jacket pockets, "Where's my lighter?"

"Oh, uh, in the… I had to throw it in the grave," Sam's nervous voice floated up from the backseat.

John felt anger flare through him like fire. That had been his best lighter; he'd had that thing since he turned eighteen- a present from his father when he'd joined the military- and he couldn't believe his son had lost it. John shoved the cigarette back into its carton and tossed it onto the passenger seat. John didn't say anything to his son, he just wanted to get back to the motel and shower.

SPN

Sam just wanted to sleep when they returned to the motel but the way his father slammed the door told him he wasn't going to get to sleep anytime soon.

Sam stood watching anxiously as his father pulled off his boots and jacket, ran a hand through his black hair and then turned to him.

Sam gulped, waiting for his Dad to start yelling at him. John didn't disappoint.

"What the fuck was that, Sam?" John asked rhetorically, "That was a rookie mistake! A mistake that could have cost somebody their life!"

"I…g-got scared," Sam stammered, knowing his father hated hearing excuses.

"You got scared," John mocked, "There's no time to be scared, Sam! Didn't I teach you that?"

"Yes," Sam answered, "But you got hurt and I- I-"

Sam couldn't help the tears that were welling up in his eyes. He was hurting from the Cihuateteo's claws and tired from a night without proper rest.

"Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about," John threatened, raising a fist in his son's face.

Sam hiccupped, trying to stop the tears but he couldn't. He wanted his brother. He wanted Dean to tell him he'd done a good job and tell his Dad to back off.

The blow sent Sam sprawling. Pain blossomed across his cheek and his cries were momentarily stifled from the shock.

Green eyes wide, Sam stared up at his father towering over him.

"I told you to shut up," John growled venomously.

"I- I'm s-sorry," Sam choked out, holding his bruised cheek.

Sam lowered his gaze as his father sneered at him with something like disgust.

"I'm sorry I spilt the gas," Sam paused as he hiccupped again, "I'm sorry I lost your lighter; it won't happen again."

"You're right, Sammy," John hissed and Sam flinched at how angry his father sounded, "It won't happen again because this is the last hunt you'll ever go on."

Sam heard his father leave the room but he didn't move. He remained where he was, sitting on the floor, wishing Dean had never left.

"Dean," Sam whispered as though his father would be able to hear him even then, "Please come back, please. Dad's so different, he's changed… I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

On hands and knees, Sam crawled across the motel room and peered up at his father's duffle bag, wondering if he had left his cell phone inside.

Shakily Sam got to his feet and carefully looked through the bag, only to find that the phone was missing.

Sam sat down between the beds and rolled up his pant leg to expose the claw marks on his ankle and shin. They weren't all that deep but they were bloody- Sam's sock had turned a deep crimson- and stung painful as he poked at them.

It was hours before Sam moved, on hands and knees again- he was just too tired to stand- and slowly made his way to the bathroom. He closed the door and peeled off his bloodstained clothes and turned on the shower.

Sam sat in the bottom of the tub and let the warm water wash over him. It ran over the painful cuts on his back and was pink as it swirled down the drain.

SPN

John sat in the dimly-lit bar, nursing a bottle of beer in a booth at the back, watching the other patrons without much interest.

Jimi Hendrix's 'The Wind Cries Mary' played from the overhead speakers and John couldn't help but think of his own Mary.

"What am I doing here?" John asked his wife quietly, "How are we supposed to go on?"

He took a gulp of beer, "Sam's too much like you… You know that? I know he tries to be a good hunter but he fails, every time."

"Tell me what to do, Mary. Please, I need some help here," John begged his wife.

He paused in his soliloquy as he motioned for the bartender to bring him another beer before continuing.

"I don't remember how to be a Dad," John muttered, "All I know is hunting."

He smiled grimly, "I could use some divine intervention here, you know."

John sighed and began peeling the label off his beer bottle, "I'll make Sam a hunter. I will, you'll see. I'll train him up and we'll avenge your death."

John's vision blurred, "I'll teach that boy a lesson he won't soon forget. He won't be such a fuck-up when I'm finished with him."

John frowned at the shredded label in his hands and downed the last of his beer. He should get back to the motel, check on Sam, and look over his son's injuries.

Standing, John flipped some bills onto the table and walked out of the bar. The familiar growl of his beloved Impala soothed John as he drove and sang the last lines of the Hendrix song under his breath, "Will the wind ever remember the names it has blown in the past? And with his crutch, its old age, and its wisdom; it whispers no, this will be the last…"

John swallowed a lump in his throat and blinked back the prickle of tears, "And the wind cries Mary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Deep Purple song.


	14. The Wrong Child

Several Weeks Later

Sam looked down at the gun in his hands, satisfied. His fingers ached and Sam popped the joints. He had cleaned every weapon from John's duffle bag. Just like his Dad had told him to.

Sam's head snapped up when he heard the apartment's front door open and the familiar stomp of his father's boots sound on the linoleum floor.

"Sam!" John barked and his son slid off the bed. Sam set the gun carefully on the scratched dresser and cringed as his Dad bellowed again.

"I'm coming," Sam said quietly and limped down the narrow hallway toward the sound of John's voice.

John stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, and squinted at his youngest son.

"What were you doing?" He asked and moved forward, causing Sam to take a step backwards.

"Cleaning the weapons just like you told me to," Sam said and lowered his gaze, "Sir."

John narrowed his eyes at the boy as though he didn't believe him.

Sam breathed a sigh as John stalked past him and went into the tiny apartment kitchen. He heard the refrigerator squeak as its door was opened and the clink and hiss as the cap of a beer bottle was unscrewed.

Sam didn't move until he was sure his father was in the den; the groan of the couch's rusty springs told the boy that John was settling in for the evening.

Sam made his way back to his bedroom and packed the rest of the weapons away into his father's duffle, carrying the bag into the living room and setting it down in the doorway. John didn't even look in his direction as Sam positioned the piece of luggage like an offering and retreated.

Pausing in the kitchen, Sam took a glass from the cupboard and turned on the tap, filling the cup with water.

He listened to the drone of the television as he took sips from the cup, thoughts drifting miles away to California and his brother.

A loud explosion from John's show startled Sam and the glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor.

Oh no! Sam had a moment to think before he heard the couch's springs protest as his father stood up.

Quickly Sam knelt down and began picking up the larger pieces of glass, all the while praying that his Dad wouldn't come in to investigate.

Sam glanced up to see his father standing in the doorway.

"I-I'm s-sorry," Sam stammered, already terrified at the livid expression on John's face.

Sam backed against the counter as John approached him, pieces of glass crunching beneath his father's boots.

The boy let the glass he was holding fall to the floor, the shards tinkling musically against the linoleum as John grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer.

Tears flooded Sam's eyes and his heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer.

"Pl-please," Sam begged, "I'm s-s-sorry!"

John's expression darkened, "You good-for-nothing, clumsy bastard. Can't do a goddamn thing right, can you?"

Sam closed his eyes as his father raised a fist and slammed it into his face.

John's wedding ring caught on the skin beneath Sam's eye and tore it, a gash bleeding freely down the boy's cheek.

John let his son go and Sam fell to the floor, one hand going to the seeping wound on his face.

"I- I'll cl-clean it u-up," Sam stuttered and tears fell, mixing with blood.

"Damn right you will," John hissed angrily, "And then get out of my sight."

Sam nodded. He could already feel his eye starting to swell and the gash burned terribly.

John stalked back to the den and Sam hurriedly gathered the pieces of glass, unmindful of sharp edges- cutting his fingers and the palms of his hands- as he fought to keep from crying out loud.

W

Sam's eyes opened as soon as he heard the front door slam shut- his Dad was gone for the day- and sat up in bed.

Digging around in his duffle bag, Sam found a relatively clean t-shirt and picked up the jeans he'd been wearing the day before from the growing pile of clothes in one corner of the room.

Once dressed, Sam went into the tiny bathroom and brushed his teeth, trying not to look at the gash on his cheek or the blackening around his eye.

It's not that bad, Sam told himself, it's not that bad.

Spitting toothpaste into the basin, Sam wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and turned away from the mirror.

Limping into the kitchen, Sam saw the table strewn with papers- his father's research- about a resident witch that John was looking for with help from a local hunter named Mustaine.

Sam carefully settled the papers into a neat pile and turned his attention to the cupboards and refrigerator, his growling stomach a priority.

Peering into the fridge, Sam saw numerous bottles of beer and a jug of milk a week past its expiry date.

Wrinkling his nose, Sam uncapped the jug and sniffed at its content, dumping the sour milk down the drain in the kitchen sink a moment later.

Throwing the empty jug into the garbage beneath the sink, Sam opened the cupboards, desperate to find something edible.

His eyes lit on a crumpled bread bag, the last three slices not too stale. Sam pulled the bag down from the cupboard and leaned against the counter as he munched away at the crumbly Wonder Bread.

W

Sam sat down on the stoop of the apartment building, just trying to enjoying the warm fall weather- an Indian summer- before he went back inside.

The sound of laughing caught Sam's attention and he smiled wanly at the sight of three boys about his own age kicking a soccer ball back and forth on the far side of the parking lot.

Sam remembered the few times he and Dean played one-on-one basketball together, often while staying at Bobby's salvage yard, and felt his heart ache for his absent brother.

The sounds of laughter and good-natured shouting come closer and Sam saw a streak of black and white as the soccer ball bounced off the front step.

"Hey! Kick it back!" A voice called out and Sam's gaze sought out the source.

One of the boys, maybe one or two years younger than Sam, with floppy blonde hair and wide blue eyes, was walking toward him.

"Kick the ball back over here, yeah?" The boy said loudly as he moved closer to Sam.

Sam froze; what do I do? What can I do? What should I do?

He stared at the ball sitting on the ground a few feet from his perch to the boy who was coming steadily closer.

The boy gave a goofy, friendly smile as he approached Sam.

"Ya wanna play?" He asked; blue eyes taking in Sam's baggy clothes, worn-out sneakers and lean face.

Sam stared; what do I say? What can I say?

The blonde boy kicked the ball in the air, bounced it off his head and caught it, peering curiously at Sam.

"Kevin! C'mon," One of the boy's friends called out and the blonde boy turned around.

Sam slumped as he watched the other boys continue their game as if he didn't even exist.

After a few more moments of watching the other children, Sam stood and went back inside, taking the stairs to the apartment and closed the door softly behind him while choking back a sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from an R.E.M song.


	15. Hell Is For Children

Sam looked at the date on the newspaper his father had left laying on the Formica kitchen table.

The date just above the headline seemed to take up the whole of Sam's vision, its black letters growing larger and larger, mocking him as his face was shoved into the edge of the table, his nose breaking and spraying crimson across the newspaper, staining it.

Sam gasped and choked on blood sliding back down his throat as his father's grip on his arm tightened, threatening to pull his shoulder from its socket.

"D-Dad! St-st-op!" Sam coughed, one hand searching for purchase while the other remained jammed against his hip, his arm trapped behind his back.

Sam fell to his knees and blood splattered onto the linoleum floor.

I'll have to clean that up later; Sam thought as he began to feel lightheaded.

The muscles in Sam's arm protested as the limb was pulled even further. Sam gritted his teeth together so hard his jaw ached with the pressure. Blood still flowed from his battered nose to coat his lips and chin, spots dotting his shirt.

Just when Sam thought the pain couldn't get any worse, he heard a loud popping noise and agony flared through his abused arm, numbing his fingers.

The floor rushed up to meet Sam's face as John released his youngest son and stalked out of the room.

W

Sam's breath gurgled as he gulped in air past the blood trickling down his throat. He didn't even bother trying to move from his position on the kitchen floor. His body was too wracked with pain.

Sam closed his eyes- he didn't want to see the table legs or the bottom of the cupboards anymore- and slipped into unconsciousness.

Sam sat on his bed and peered through the darkness. He held his breath and listened for the familiar sound of John's snoring. It didn't come.

Is he awake? Sam wondered and fear settled into his stomach. Maybe he's out at some bar.

Sam tensed when he heard soft footsteps making their way to his room.

The owner of the footfalls appeared and Sam's mouth dropped open, "Mom?"

She looked exactly as he imagined she would. She had golden hair that fell down her back in curls and warm blue eyes. She wore a white nightgown and bare feet.

Sam gulped, "Mommy?"

"My boy," Mary smiled and sat down beside Sam, drawing him into a comforting embrace.

Sam blinked away tears and tried to still his trembling body.

Mary held Sam at arm's length and brushed his long bangs back from his forehead.

"Can we leave? Are you going to take me away?" Sam asked in a small voice.

"Oh Sam," Mary cooed and reached up to give her son's shoulder a squeeze. Sam flinched as pain seared down his arm.

"Why is Dad doing this? Have I done something wrong? I've only ever did what he wanted!" Sam asked as tears spilling down his face and the pain in his arm faded to numbness.

Mary put a warm palm against the side of her son's face, her expression sympathetic in the gloom.

"Sam, you need to be punished," Mary spoke matter-of-factly but her eyes still held their loving light.

Sam gasped and blood began to trickle from his nose. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"Mom? W-what are you talking about? I haven't done anything!" Sam argued.

Mary stood up and regarded her son, hands on her hips.

"You killed me, Samuel, your own mother," Mary's voice turned as hard as flint; her blue eyes turning to ice.

"No! I was only a baby!" Sam protested, oblivious of the crimson liquid streaming from his nose.

"You're a murderer! If you had never been born I would still be alive!" Mary pulled back a hand and slapped her son.

Sam's hand went to his stinging cheek and his eyes widened in shock.

"I should have killed you when you were born… before you were born! You're cursed! You've only brought death to this family!" Mary screeched and Sam cried out when his mother's sapphire eyes turned to obsidian.

A horizontal line of blood appeared on the front of Mary's nightgown and widened, crimson drops hitting the floor between her bare feet.

Sam thought he could smell cooking meat in the air and gagged, spraying blood from his nose onto the carpet.

Sam cried out for help- for Dean, for Dad, for anyone- when Mary leaped at him, hands forming claws and death in her eyes.

Sam jerked awake with a muffled cry. He cringed as the movement jostled his dislocated shoulder.

John's dark eyes peered down at him and Sam resisted the urge to flinch away.

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed as he flailed until he was in a more-or-less sitting position, leaning his back against one of the table's metal legs, "G-gotta fix m'arm."

John sat back on his haunches in front of his son, hands dangling between his knees.

"No," John said in a monotone.

"Pl-please," Sam begged, "It h-hurts so b-bad."

"Than that will teach you a lesson then, won't it?" John answered and stood, brushing invisible dirt from his palms.

Sam hadn't done anything wrong! Some middle-aged woman in one of the neighbouring apartments had asked Sam where he'd gotten the black eyes and cut on his cheek. John had been standing right behind his son and had placed what seemed to the outsider, a comforting hand on his boy's shoulder, all the while squeezing hard as a reminder for Sam not to say anything. Sam had lied and told the lady that he had been roughhousing with some of his friends. John had grunted in agreement, growling "boys will be boys" before the woman had nodded and smiled, continuing down the hall and into her own apartment.

Sam bit his tongue in an effort not to sob. His nose and eyes throbbed and the kitchen light seemed far too bright. Looking up in his father's direction, Sam could see a white corona of light around John's shadowed face.

He's going to leave me like this, Sam realized and tears ran down his bruised face.

Sam's eyes followed his father as John walked from the kitchen.

"Pl-please," Sam whispered, knowing his father wouldn't hear him.

W

Sam looked up through his haze of pain as John entered the kitchen. He didn't know how much time had passed but the shadows in the room had grown long, climbing up the cupboards and the dried blood had turned from livid scarlet to maroon and rust.

John stood in front of his son and Sam saw a belt dangling in his fingers. Sam cringed; afraid his father was going to hit him with it.

Sam watched warily as John crouched in front of him and held the belt out, "Put this in your mouth."

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion.

"I'm gonna fix your damn arm, boy! Do as I say!" John snapped and Sam took the belt with his good hand and set it between his teeth. He could taste the leather of the belt and gulped.

Sam scooted away from the table and sat that his back was towards his father. John gently eased Sam's injured arm through its sleeve and slipped the shirt over his son's head.

The boy's father didn't even blink as his eyes caught the bruises on his son's back and then rested on his shoulder. The joint formed a large bump that looked like some sort of deformity underneath black-and-blue bruised skin.

John took his son's arm, holding the elbow at a 90 degree angle and the boy's heart began to pound. Next, John rotated Sam's injured arm and shoulder inwards, towards the boy's chest, making an 'L' shape. Tears sprang out in Sam's eyes as his father moved his injured arm outwards, keeping a firm grip on his wrist, without stopping until his son's arm was just a little lower than 90 degrees.

Sam didn't even receive a warning before John quickly pushed the arm back towards his shoulder. Sweat beaded Sam's brow and he bit down hard on the belt, the leather muffling his cry of surprise and pain.

Sam felt an uncomfortable scraping sensation in his shoulder before John released his wrist. Sam slumped where he sat, his shoulder no longer sending lightning bolts of pain down his arm.

The belt slipped from Sam's mouth as he panted for air. He looked down and saw a row of puncture marks in the leather where he had bitten down hard against the pain.

John stood, looked down at his son and then left the room with a "clean up the mess you made."

Sam lowered his head. His shoulder didn't hurt so much now but his stomach ached. He wished his brother was there, he wished he could see Dean give him a cocky wink and tell him that it was going to be okay.

Shakily, Sam stood, gingerly testing his relocated shoulder. He staggered to the kitchen sink and opened the cupboard beneath, taking out a blue plastic pail, a grungy cleaning rag and a bottle of dish soap.

Sam set the pail in the sink, squirted in some of the bright yellow detergent, and ran the hot water tap.

Once the pail was full of sudsy water, Sam lifted it and set it on the floor. He submerged the rag and wrung it out, the cheerful scent of soap filling the tiny kitchen.

W

Sam's arms ached as he finished scrubbing the last flakes of dried blood from the linoleum. It had taken longer than he expected to clean all the blood; it had stained the linoleum a dark brown colour that stubbornly refused to be removed.

Looks like someone got ganked in here, Sam thought as he dumped the bucket of water into the sink.

Sam sat down at the table, pulling one of the chairs out. He ran a hand through his long bangs and sighed. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep.

Maybe he'd be able to creep away down the hall and curl up in his bed for a couple of hours.

Sam could hear the television blaring in the small adjoining living room. His father had killed the witch two days ago and Sam was sure they would be leaving soon. John never stayed in one place long after a hunt was finished.

Sam stood up from the table, his chair scraping loudly across the floor and he froze.

"Sam? Ya finished?" John's voice called.

Sam's eyes watered, "Y-yes... Yes sir."

John strode into the room and eyed the floor and table critically. He huffed, apparently deciding that it would do.

Sam remained frozen to the spot as John approached him.

Sam didn't move even when his father backhanded him across the face.

"Maybe you'll learn to keep your mouth shut next time!" John growled; eyes boring into his son's.

"Y-yes," Sam lowered his gaze. He had no idea why his father was so angry at him- the woman had asked an innocent question and Sam had done his part, had lied and diffused any suspicion- but then again, John probably thought Sam had told something to the neighbour when he wasn't around.

"You make me sick," John growled and Sam fought the tears pooling in his eyes, knowing he'd only make it worse if he started crying.

"Yes sir," Sam answered thickly.

SPN

Why couldn't the boy learn? He wasn't an idiot, John knew that, so why did he keep making the same mistakes? Why did he make John punish him?

John closed his eyes for a moment and stalked from the room, tired of the sight of his boy.

He sat down on the creaky couch and ran his hands through his hair. He missed his wife. God, he wished Mary was there to tell him what to do.

Hands clenched into fists as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Every year November second rolled around and it never got any easier. Every year the anniversary of Mary's murder was like a black smudge on John's heart.

With a shaking hand, John reached out for his bottle of beer and downed a mouthful of lukewarm liquid.

John wished he could see his sweet wife's face one last time, he wished he could see her blue eyes sparkle and her smile light up her face. He wished he could get the last sight of Mary from his mind. He wished he didn't have to see her lovely face contorted in agony as flames consumed her.

Why did it have to be Mary? Why did she have to die? Why did Sam have to live?

John froze, shocked by his own thoughts. No! Sam was just a baby, I had to save him!

But Mary could have had other children, John reasoned; if she'd been saved. Instead I have a disgrace for a son and no wife.

John put his head in his hands as tears trickled from his dark eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Pat Benatar song.


	16. Hey Dad

Sam couldn't stop staring at the small black rectangle that sat on the opposite bed. There it was, glossy black and so small against the brown covers. John's cell phone.

The boy's father had gone out- probably to scope out the local watering hole- and Sam knew he'd been gone for a while.

Sam's stomach clenched painfully and he knew what he had to do.

Eyes focusing on the closed motel room door, Sam slipped from his bed to the one his father had claimed and picked up the cool, smooth communication device.

A chilly wind moaned outside the room, snow piled up against the door and Sam strained to hear the growl of the Impala's engine.

Sam flipped the phone open and stared at it, eyeing the number panel.

He turned the cell on and scrolled down the contacts list until he saw Bobby's number.

Sam froze; listening to the wind howling outside before he pushed the button that would connect him to the old hunter.

Sam's fingers shook as the phone rang and rang.

Please Bobby, pick up; Sam thought although he was unsure of exactly what he would say when his father's old friend and mentor answered.

"Yeah?" The hunter's gruff voice was slightly faded from the bad connection.

"H-hi Bobby," Sam squeaked out.

"Sam, that you boy? What's the matter? Your Daddy okay?" Bobby asked, sounding worried.

Sam's gaze traveled to the window and he froze when he saw a dark shadow cross by the snow-splattered glass.

"Sam? You still there? What's a matter?" Bobby's voice jerked Sam from his reverie.

"Y-yeah," Sam muttered, "Yes, I'm here."

"Are you alright? Haven't heard from John in a while," Bobby said and Sam jumped when he heard the motel door's handle turn.

"I, uh, I gotta go Bobby," Sam stammered and closed the phone guiltily, throwing the device back onto the bed and moving to his own.

Sam lay down as soon as his father walked in the room, his back to John as he feigned sleep.

Sam's heart leaped into his throat when his father's cell phone rang and John answered it.

"What?" His father's annoyed tone asked.

"Bobby, what-" John asked before he was cut off and spoke again, "No we're fine."

"I'll call you later," John told the hunter, "Yes, yes, I will. G'bye."

Sam heard his father snap the phone shut and gasped as John grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

"What did you think you were doing?" John snarled; his expression livid.

"I- I d-d-didn't say a-anything!" Sam cried out and shrank away from his father.

John pulled his son forward and slammed his fist into Sam's mouth.

Sam's teeth cut into his lips and he swallowed blood.

"Did you think Bobby would believe you? You? Who do you think he's more willing to trust? I'm a hunter, boy! And you, you're nothing but a pathetic, sniveling brat!" John growled at his son, shaking him by his collar.

"I'm sorry!" Sam slurred out, blood sliding down his chin through his cut and swollen mouth.

"Not yet, you aren't," John hissed and dragged his son off the bed.

"Pl-please Dad! Stop!" Sam begged as his father shoved him across the room and pulled open the door.

Wet snow pelted into Sam's face, freezing it almost instantly.

Sam struggled as his father pushed him onto the sidewalk, into the piling snow.

The boy stared up at his father and tried not to cry. He was only wearing a pair of Dean's old jeans- the cuffs are rolled up three times to fit Sam's legs- and a navy blue hand-me-down t-shirt.

Sam's hands grew numb as he scrabbled in the snow, trying to keep from face-planting. He tried to crawl out from underneath his father's hold but John's grip only tightened.

"D-Dad, pl-pl-please!" Sam begged as John shoved his face into a snowdrift.

Gravel shifted beneath Sam's clawing hands, digging into his palms and under his nails.

"You just never learn, do you?" John snapped at his son.

Sam's hands covered his head in an effort to protect himself.

John pulled on the back of Sam's collar yanking his son back toward the motel room. Sam stumbled as his father shoved his son back inside. Sam's hands burned on the carpet as John nearly threw him across the room. He rummaged in his duffle bag and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

"Wh-what are… are th-those for?" Sam stuttered and wrapped his arms around his middle. He was shaking.

John grabbed Sam's upper arm and dragged his son into the bathroom.

Sam's wet clothes squelched on the cold tile floor. John snatched up one of Sam's wrists and snapped a cuff around it, tightening it before looping the chain through the exposed pipe underneath the sink and fastening the opposite cuff.

"D-Dad! Don't l-leave me!" Sam craned his neck to look behind him at his father.

The cold seeped up from the floor and made Sam shiver even more.

John turned off the light and closed the door. Sam closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the thick exposed water pipe.

SPN

John opened the bathroom door softly. He didn't bother turning on the light- the sun shining into the motel room gave enough illumination to the tiny lavatory- and moved stealthily to his son.

The boy was sleeping; his legs beneath him awkwardly and his chin on his narrow chest, long bangs obscuring his closed eyes.

John took the keys to the handcuffs from his jean's pocket and unlocked the metal bracelets from around his son's wrists, catching Sam when he slumped forward.

John picked his son up with one arm beneath the boy's knees and the other supporting his back. Sam stirred but he did not wake.

John could feel his son shivering in his arms and saw that his face was deathly pale.

Gently, the father laid his son on the motel bed and brought the covers up to his boy's chin.

John watched his son sleep for a moment, brushed long bangs from his son's brow, and thought about the past few months.

Did I do this to him? Why would I do that? I love my boy.

John startled when he realized he couldn't recall what had happened the day before, why his son had been handcuffed to a pipe in the motel bathroom.

John's head began to throb and he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

"D-Dad?" Sam's small voice asked and John saw a pair of green eyes peeping out from the covers.

"It's okay, Sammy," John ground out from clenched teeth, "Go back to sleep."

When his son's eyes closed again, John stood up and went into the bathroom. He grabbed a relatively clean wash cloth and ran warm water from the tap over it. Wringing the cloth out, John returned to his son's side and gently wiped the dried blood away from Sam's mouth and chin.

John's hands shook as he wiped the warm cloth over his son's face, leaving it resting on Sam's brow.

"I'm gonna fix this, Sammy," John told his son as his vision began to blur and the throbbing in his head drowned out even his own voice.

SPN

Sam's eyes opened slowly. Bright sunlight shone into the room, making him cringe. His eyes widened though, when he felt the softness of blankets and a lumpy mattress beneath him.

Sitting up quickly despite the dizziness it caused, Sam realized that sometime through the night or in the early morning hours his father had moved him. A dried-out face cloth fell off Sam's brow with the movement and he stared at it for a few seconds before sitting it on the bedside table.

Eyes traveling around the room, Sam saw that he was alone. How long had he been lying in bed? Sam vaguely recalled the feeling of being lifted up and carried but he wasn't quite sure when that had been- he had out of it pretty much all night.

"D-Dad?" Sam asked, just needing to hear something other than the distant grumble of cars as they passed by on the highway.

He moved over to the side of the bed and planted his feet on the brown shag carpet. Standing, Sam swayed dangerously and grabbed at the corner of the bedside table to keep from falling. The room spun around a few times, causing Sam's stomach to voice a complaint.

Releasing the table, Sam took a step forward and fell onto hands and knees. The carpet fibers dug into palms raw from scrabbling at the gravel outside when John had pushed him into the snow.

Sam's back arched as he puked, his stomach clenching painfully as it expelled its meager contents onto the ugly motel rug.

Sam's arms trembled with fatigue and he rolled to his side to avoid landing in the puddle of sick. He shivered, feeling as though he was outside in the snow-covered parking lot again and drew his limbs closer to his body for warmth.

W

Sam wasn't sure how much time had passed. He must have dozed off because the sound of the motel door closing sharply woke him up. He peeled open his eyes and stared at his father's boots from the space between the floor and the bed's box spring.

"Sam!" John's voice pounded in Sam's ears and Sam shifted onto his elbows.

"Hey Dad," Sam croaked. His throat felt like he'd swallowed a bag of thumb tacks.

The boy watched as his father's boots moved from the doorway, around the first bed and stop when the owner of those boots saw his son.

Sam didn't look at John as his father bent down and grabbed him under the arms, pulling him into a standing position.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked, shaking his son as he spoke.

"I, uh I f-fell," Sam explained, "I'm not feelin' good."

John squinted at his son and then released him. Sam's legs didn't want to co-operate and he sank heavily onto his bed.

John wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans as if he had just been touching something dirty and looked down, sniffing.

Sam cringed back when angry eyes met his.

"You're disgusting," John said and grabbed the back of Sam's shirt.

"Clean that up," John dragged his son off the bed and shoved him down toward the puddle of puke that had already dried into the carpet.

Sam held his breath as the sour smell invaded the air around him, John nearly rubbing his nose in it like a puppy who'd made a mess.

Still feeling dizzy and lightheaded, Sam stood up once his father had backed off and zigzagged his way to the bathroom, gathered up a couple of towels- wetting one in the sink while leaving one dry- and made his way back into the main room. Sam fell to his knees and tried to calm his stomach as he wiped up the sick with the damp towel, gagging when the smell became overpowering.

SPN

John had moved to the scratched table in the corner of the room and sat with his boot heels resting on the tabletop, flicking through the pages of his journal, a felt-tip pen behind his ear in case he needed to make notes. The man pretended as though he was the only one in the motel room, effectively drowning out the sounds of his child with his own thoughts.

Goddamn kid never learns, John mused and took a cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket of his jacket. Guess I just gotta keep drilling it into his thick skull until it sticks; he thought and lit the smoke with a dollar store lighter.

John grabbed the pen from its resting place and his eyes wandered across the room to his boy on his hands and knees, using one of the motel's white, threadbare towels to mop of the mess he'd made- damn kid can't even make it to the fucking bathroom- all the while making small whimpers like a dog in pain.

Kid's no good as a hunter, he's gotta be good for something; John decided, can't stay useless for the rest of his life.

And if he isn't useful, well, nobody will miss him, will they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Good Charlotte song.


	17. Fortunate Son

Several Months Later

Sam couldn't have been happier when his father told him he was going on a hunt with him.

Maybe he's finally forgiven me! Sam thought hopefully and almost bounded out to the Impala.

As John drove out to the forested area the Black Dog had been spotted in, Sam couldn't help the little smile that crossed his lips.

Now I'll be a real hunter! Sam stared out the window, eager to show his father what he could do.

The car lurched to a stop thirty-five minutes later and Sam stepped out, staring at the beginning of the trails the monster ran along, killing late-night joggers and teenaged lovers who thought they would be safe making-out in the bushes.

Sam turned to his father when John opened the Impala's trunk and took out a handgun loaded of silver bullets.

Slamming the trunk shut, John moved towards his son.

Sam frowned. He had no weapon to fight the monster.

"Dad? Don't I need a gun too?" Sam asked quietly.

"No," John stared down at his boy, who looked so small in his hand-me-down clothes and overly-long hair.

"Why not?" Sam cringed in case John decided to hit him.

"You're not going to be the hunter tonight," John said calmly, "You're going to be the hunted."

Sam's mouth dropped open in understanding- he was going to be bait to lure the Black Dog!

"N-no, please D-Dad," Sam begged, "I'm… I'm s-sorry."

Sam didn't even know what he was apologizing for- some imagined fault he'd done to his father- but John just lowered the gun at his son.

"You'd better run, Sam," John said emotionlessly.

"I- I can't!" Sam begged, feeling his eyes well up with terrified tears.

BANG!

Sam jumped, hands going to his ears as John fired the gun into the dirt at his son's feet.

"Run. Sam," John ordered, "Or I'll shoot you."

Choking back tears, Sam tore away from his father, sneakers slipping on the damp grass and the breath burning in his lungs.

W

Sam tried to keep to the paths but it was a moonless night and often lost track of the packed-earth trails to fly through the forest, branches slashing at his face and clothes.

Sam stumbled to a halt and leaned against a large tree. His breath coming in harsh gasps as his heart pounded fearfully in his chest. His hands gripped the tree's flaky bark as Sam tried to hold himself upright. He shivered. It was early spring but the air was still chilly and he wasn't wearing adequate clothing for the time of year.

Sam's heart leapt in his chest when he heard a terrible growl from behind him.

Peering around the tree, Sam saw the Black Dog. It was as tall as a Great Dane but looked like a wolf. Its jet black fur blended in perfectly with the night making it all but invisible but for the glow of its lemon yellow eyes and white, dagger-like teeth.

Sam pushed himself away from the tree, terrified.

He ran down a trail hearing the pounding of large paws behind him. Sam imagined he could feel the beast's rancid breath on his back as he crashed through the trees.

Suddenly Sam went flying as his ankle twisted on an exposed root and he landed painfully on his stomach, biting down on his tongue and drawing blood.

Scrambling on hands and knees, Sam knew that he would not last much longer against the monster.

"DAD!" Sam cried out in desperation and heard the crack of a gunshot.

Waiting for the Black Dog's claws to find purchase in his back, Sam trembled and held his breath but nothing happened.

A flashlight beam had Sam squinting up at John.

"It's dead," His father informed him. Sam held a hand out for help getting to his feet but his father turned away.

Grabbing onto a nearby sapling, Sam pulled himself onto his feet, hissing in pain as he put his weight down on his sprained ankle.

Looking behind him, Sam saw the massive shape of the Black Dog laying crumpled only a few feet away. Sam gulped at the thought of how close he'd been to getting killed.

SPN

At least now I've found a use for the boy, John thought as he opened the motel room door and stepped inside. He watched as his son limped in after him and sat down on his bed.

John watched as Sam carefully pulled his shoe off, whimpering, and gently touched his swollen ankle.

I'd be hunting that brute for hours by myself, John continued, but it came right for the boy. Saves me a lot of time wandering around looking for these bastards.

He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and paid no more heed to his son. John vaguely registered the sound of the bathroom door closing and the shower turning on but he was too immersed in his own thoughts to care.

If only every hunter had someone like my boy, it'd make our job a whole lot easier; John chuckled.

SPN

Dean was nervous. He couldn't help it. Final exams were coming up and that was the only thing on his mind.

For all of three seconds until Molly suggested they blow off some steam at the beach.

"C'mon Dean," She smiled, tugging on his wrist, "You look like you could use a break from all that studying."

Dean couldn't help but grin back. He loved the beach. He had never been to one until he'd arrived in California and then he'd wondered how he'd missed out on something as awesome as the Pacific all his life.

"Okay," Dean relented, "Only for a few hours though."

Dean wouldn't have minded if they were to stay at the beach the entire day.

Molly sighed and rolled her eyes comically, "Your textbooks will still be here when you get back, Point Dexter."

W

Once they arrived at the white sand beach, energized by the sun and sea, Dean completely forgot about studying. For the first time in Dean's life he actually had friends- people who wanted to be around him because of his personality and not because they had to- and he felt like he was on the inside for once, like he wasn't the outsider he'd felt he was all his life.

This, this was what Mary Winchester had wanted for her eldest son.

When Dean had first arrived at Stanford he had been slightly nervous, self-conscious; never having been far from his father and brother before…. That was until he met Molly.

She was a freshman too, moving into a floor below his in their co-ed residence. Curious, she had climbed the stairs, offering to help her new neighbours get unpacked and settled.

Molly had immediately been drawn to the young man whose only luggage was a worn, dark green duffle bag and had no parents in sight- unlike the other boys on his floor who seemed to have moved the entire contents of their bedrooms with them and were being embarrassed by clingy mothers and proud yet tearful fathers.

Leaning on the doorframe, Molly smiled as Dean stared at his room with its flattened brown carpet, low-lying bed, narrow window with a tiny balcony (standing room only) and faux pine desk and dresser.

Dean had sensed someone watching him and turned to see a tiny girl with dark red, wavy hair that ended at her shoulders, a freckle-covered nose and emerald green eyes.

"I'm Molly Llewellyn," the girl introduced herself.

"Dean Winchester," Dean smiled and shook Molly's hand.

Raising a fine, red eyebrow, Molly commented, "You pack light."

Dean chuckled and set his duffle down on his bed. He ran a hand through his hair and then his expression turned embarrassed.

"I pack lightly, too," Molly said softly, almost wistfully and sat down beside Dean, her small hand touching his wrist tentatively.

After that, well, it was history. Dean and Molly were almost inseparable. Molly was bubbly and not shy around anyone and pretty soon she had Dean out of his shy shell until he was just as confident and boisterous as she was.

W

"Why don't you talk about your family, Dean?" Molly asked. She was lying on a beach towel in a tiny black and white striped bikini. Turning her gaze to Dean, her brow furrowed as she waited for his answer.

Dean shrugged, "There's nothing much to tell you. I traveled around a lot with my father and younger brother but then decided to go to school."

"What does your father do for a living?" Molly asked, pushing her sunglasses up so she could see Dean better.

Dean hesitated for an instant, "He's a door-to-door salesman."

Molly smiled, "They don't really have salesmen like that anymore, do they?"

"Oh, yeah, my Dad even sells vacuum cleaners," Dean grinned back at the girl.

Molly squealed, realizing Dean was joking with her.

"No, really," Molly continued.

"He's just a handy-man, does odd jobs for people," Dean fibbed again, this time making it more believable.

"How old's your brother," Molly wanted to know.

"Thirteen," Dean squinted at the setting sun and wondered if they should be heading back.

"You miss them, don't you?" Molly said seriously now, "Did something happen? You never talk about them."

"No, well, Dad wasn't too happy that I was leaving," Dean stood up and grabbed his towel, shaking sand out of it.

"Okay but-" Molly started but Dean interrupted the girl before she could continue.

"I don't want to talk about my family right now, okay Moll?"

"Okay," She said quietly and gathered her belongings, waving to their friends who had vouched to stay at the beach a while longer.

W

Dean lay awake in bed. He couldn't sleep no matter how hard he tried.

Why did Moll have to bring up Dad and Sam?

Dean hadn't thought about his tiny family for months, telling himself that they had probably already forgotten him. Dean had told himself that they were better off without him.

Sam's gotta be an awesome hunter now. He and Dad are probably ganking monsters left, right and center.

Dean smiled as he envisioned his younger brother taking out ghosts and werewolves and ghouls like some eighth-grade Rambo.

He jumped when his cell phone went off.

Dean sighed and sat up, thinking that Molly was calling to apologize or talk or something.

Dean frowned when he opened his phone and saw his father's number on the screen.

Groaning, Dean prepared himself for whatever his Dad was going to say.

"D-Dean?" The voice was definitely not John Winchester's.

Dean's mouth fell open in shock, "Sammy?"

"Dean, pl-please come… please…. I'm…" Sam's voice was barely a whisper and Dean had to strain to hear him.

"Sam, what's wrong? Is Dad hurt? Are you okay? Was it a hunt?" Dean asked rapid-fire questions, fearing for both members of his small family.

"… I'm… in…. Del-" Sammy's voice was abruptly cut off and all Dean heard on the other end was dial tone.

"Sammy? Sammy!" Dean called into the receiver, knowing he'd get no answer.

Dean slammed his phone down on his dresser and stumbled around in the dark, grabbing his clothes and shoving them into his duffle bag. His brother and father were in trouble and he needed to find them and help them. Final exams no longer seemed important anymore.

Sam said he was in Del, Dean thought; where is Del?

As Dean ran down the hallway wearing his boots, a grey t-shirt and black sweat pants he stopped suddenly when he saw a map of the United States on one wall.

Del… could Sam have been trying to say Delaware?

Not wasting any more time, Dean rushed out of the residence and in the direction of the student parking lot, making a snap decision to jack a classmate's car, knowing it would be the fastest way to get to his father and brother.

Don't worry Sammy, I'm coming for ya. Hang in there Dad… I'm gonna fix this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Creedance Clearwater Revival song.


	18. My Name Is Wearing Me Out

Sam watches John silently from underneath his long bangs. He sits quietly on his bed, trying not to draw attention to himself.

John stalks around the crappy motel room, beer in hand and a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Sam knows to stay quiet and not get in his father's way because John will lash out at anyone who's fool enough to be within arm's length and that always ends up being his son.

The back of Sam's neck itches but he doesn't even move to scratch it. Sam looks down at his arm, his eyes immediately drawn to the scars marring the pale skin- cigarette burns- and rolls down the sleeves of his shirt to his wrist.

I wish he'd just go out, Sam thinks, get drunk at a bar and then pass out in some gutter when he's two sheets to the wind.

As though reading his son's mind, John whips around to face him, knuckles white where they clench the bottle of beer.

Sam cringes away from his Dad's furious expression. He hasn't even done anything!

John grabs at Sam's shoulder and shoves him into the wall. Sam's breath leaves his chest with a whoosh.

"Dad! Stop!" Sam cries out and tries to pry his father's hand away from his shoulder. John's grip only tightens, grinding the bones together. Sam groans in pain as his shoulder protests the ill treatment.

Sam's head snaps back as his father hits him with the beer bottle. Blood sprays from Sam's mouth and slides down his throat, choking him.

Sam can't catch his breath and John hits him again. He groans and his legs give out from under him.

When Sam falls to the ground his father lets him go and John begins kicking at him; steel-toed boots bruising ribs. Sam folds his arms over his head for protection, trying to breathe past the blood leaking down his throat and the pain that seems to envelope him like a cocoon. Sam didn't even notice the tears leaking from his eyes and down his cheeks.

Finally John lets up and Sam gasps for air, feeling like a drowning man who reaches the surface in the nick of time. Sam doesn't move from his position, he keeps his head down, fingers knotted in his own hair.

W

Sam wipes blood away from his chin as he looks up and he stares at his father, asleep on his bed- passed out, more like- and freezes when he sees John's cell phone sticking out of his jean's back pocket.

Sam thinks back on the past months and realizes that nothing is going to change. John is never going to change. If Sam doesn't do something, it will just continue. John knew Sam would never try to run away; Sam was sure that if he tried his father would find him. Sam lied to anybody curious enough to ask where he'd gotten his cuts and bruises from because he was terrified of Child Protective Services; John had told him horror stories about foster homes the first time one woman in the apartment they were staying at had asked Sam about a black eye he had been sporting.

Slowly, silently Sam creeps over to where John is sprawled out on his stomach on the motel bed. Sam can hear a light snore coming from the man as he reaches out with shaking fingers.

Carefully, Sam slips the cell phone from John's pocket and stood for a moment, staring at the small black device in his hands. He couldn't help but think of what had happened the last time he'd tried to ask for help.

He was sure Bobby hadn't attempted to call John back since. Even if he did, there was no way his Dad would tell the older hunter where they were. Sam had no idea where Caleb was- and he was unsure about calling him, having only met him briefly a handful of times- and he hadn't seen Pastor Jim since they'd picked Dean up from Blue Earth months ago.

Sam bit his lip. Dean. That was it. His brother was his only option. But his brother was all the way in California.

What if Dean doesn't want to talk to me, Sam thought, he hasn't called but once since he left.

I have to try; Sam told himself and brushed tears of frustration from his eyes. Dean can't hate me that much, can he?

Sam felt abandoned by his older brother. Dean had left him alone with their father who simply had no use for Sam and hadn't looked back.

Sam gulped but tightened his hand into a fist around the communication device.

He padded as silently as possible into the motel's small bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sam's breathing came in short, shallow gasps as sharp pain bloomed in his chest every time his lungs expanded against his abused ribs.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, Sam flipped open the phone and turned it on. The glow of the screen and number pad seemed cold to Sam, almost as if it were mocking him, knowing Dean wasn't going to come and rescue him like he'd done so long ago when their mother had died.

Dean's number had been deleted from John's contact list but Sam remembered it. He pushed the correct keys and held the phone up to his ear. His breathing hitched as the phone rang, heart pounding with anxiety.

Sam's mouth went as dry as cotton when the ringing stopped and he heard breathing on the other end.

"D-Dean?" Sam squeaked out, whispering from fear.

"Sammy?" Dean's astonished, tired voice asked and Sam choked back a sob. Dean wasn't hanging up the phone!

Ears keen to the sound of his father just in the other room, Sam froze when John gave a loud snort.

"Dean, pl-please come…" Sam hesitated, his tongue felt thick in his mouth and he struggled to get the words out, "Please… I'm…"

"Sam, what's wrong? Is Dad hurt? Are you okay? Was it a hunt?" Dean's worried voice asked and the cell hissed with static from the tenuous connection.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He wished it was a hunt. He wished his father had been injured and needed both his sons there with him.

"…I'm…" Sam hesitated again when he thought he heard his father shift, the rustling of clothes against bed sheets loud in his ears.

"…in… Del-" Sam didn't finish the word. John tore the bathroom door open and snatched the phone from Sam's hand, throwing it onto the tiled floor where it smashed, black chips of plastic flying in every direction as the screen shattered and the battery popped out the back.

"You little shit!" John snarled, his eyes looking crazed as he bore down on his son.

Sam tried to kick away from his father, his back hitting the bathtub as John got hold of his ankle. Sam slid across the tiled floor, hands scrabbling for purchase until he hooked his fingers into the doorframe.

John's vice-like grip on Sam's leg tightened and his fingers slipped away from the faux wood.

John dragged Sam across the stained motel carpet before releasing his leg, only to turn Sam over onto his back and pin him with his knees.

"Who'd you call? Huh? You little bastard!" John shouted in his son's face.

Tears of terror streamed from Sam's eyes and soaked the hair at his temples, he gasped for air, trying to answer his father's question.

"D-D-De-" Sam choked out and sees that his answer only enrages his father further.

John pulled a fist back and slammed it into Sam's mouth. Blood leaked from between the boy's lips, staining his teeth red.

"I. Told. You. Never. To. Say. That. Name!" John punctuated every word with a blow to his son's face or chest.

Sam groaned and tried to curl in on himself, prevented from doing so by his father's knees digging into his abdomen.

John's hands twitched and wrapped around Sam's throat, choking him. Sam could hear his father saying something to him but the sound of his pounding heart was louder in his ears.

Sam couldn't breathe. His legs pushed against the carpet in an involuntary attempt to flee. He tried to push his father away, tried to pry his hands away from his neck but wasn't strong enough. Gasping for air, Sam was sure he looked like a fish out of water and would have laughed if he hadn't been choking to death.

Black spots flashed in Sam's vision, growing more numerous and larger, threatening to blind him completely.

Sam's hands fell limply to his sides, his legs ceased kicking and his vision turned gray.

Sam was barely aware when his father took his hands from his neck and John's presence disappeared from above him.

A minute passed… two minutes… Then Sam was choking and coughing, trying to suck as much air into his oxygen-deprived body as possible.

Sam rolled weakly to his side. He didn't see John; he must have been on the other side of the room but what he did see caused his heart to leap in his chest.

His father's open duffle bag sat only a couple of feet away from him!

Sam's brain didn't even connect the thoughts as he rolled onto his stomach, still trying to breathe normally, and dragged himself toward the dark green army-issued duffle.

Sam stopped to rest as his fingers splayed out and touched the old, worn canvas. He couldn't hear any other sound but his own labored breathing. His father must have left the room.

Reaching into the bag, Sam flinched as his fingers brushed against the cold metal of a gun barrel.

Slowly, like he was moving underwater, Sam pulled the gun out and to his chest. He blinked, trying to gain his strength again as he opened the magazine and saw the firearm loaded with iron.

Tears rolled down Sam's cheeks as he tucked the weapon close to his body and didn't move again until he heard the tell-tale growl of the Impala what seemed like hours later.

Sam listened as the motel door was opened and his father's footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor.

He heard his father grunt in surprise and his footsteps came closer.

"Goddamn piece of garbage doesn't know when to die," John muttered but Sam heard him as though he had whispered the words into his ear.

Sam remained as still as possible as his father grabbed his ankles as though he was about to drag him across the room.

Twisting at the waist, Sam propped himself up on one elbow, holding the gun up with both hands.

The sound of the pistol as the trigger was squeezed and the smell of gunpowder shocked Sam. He flinched and saw a small, round, red hole appear in John's shirt, close to his heart.

John blinked and stumbled forward, falling on Sam and pinning him to the floor. Sam, panicking, pulled himself out from under his father's body with a sob of fear and anger.

He turned to stare at his father's face, watching as John's dark eyes grew lifeless and cold.

Sam gasped in horror when a white mist flowed from his father's slightly open mouth. The mist twisted upward and disappeared into the cracked, water-stained ceiling.

Scrambling to his father, Sam reached out and shook his Dad's shoulder.

"Dad? Dad, wake up!" Sam begged.

It wasn't Dad, it wasn't Dad…. Oh God, what have I done? It wasn't Dad!

"Dad! It's gone! It's over! Wake up, please!" Sam shook his father's shoulder with more force.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Sam apologized, his voice barely a whisper as it rasped in his bruised throat.

Tears filled Sam's already red-rimmed eyes and he retreated from John's body until he was wedged between the furthest bed and the wall.

It wasn't Dad, it wasn't him… please, please forgive me! Dean, where are you! No, no… what have I done? He'll be mad at me! He'll leave me again! I killed Dad! I killed him! Oh God, what have I done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Shinedown song.


	19. I Thought I Knew It All

Dean couldn't get to Delaware fast enough. It had taken him two full days to get to Dover, Delaware- where he hoped his baby brother and father were. He had tried to call John's cell phone more than once as he drove but only got the dial tone.

Dean cruised down the streets of Delaware's capitol on the morning of his third day away from California, eyes peeled for the familiar sight of the Impala.

"Dammit!" Dean swore, "They're not here… where are they?"

Dean slammed on the breaks when he caught sight of the Impala parked in front of a skuzzy-looking motel.

What are you doing here? Dean wondered and pulled up beside the Impala. Getting out of his stolen car, Dean saw cigarette butts littering the sidewalk in front of the door and that the curtains were drawn tightly shut.

Dean's brow furrowed as he knocked on the door.

Receiving no answer, Dean curled his hand into a fist and pounded on the peeling paint.

The vibrations caused the iron number 4 to fall onto the sidewalk with a definite clank.

"Okay," Dean ran his hand through his hair and kicked the doorknob.

Opening the door, Dean squinted in the dim lighting and took a hesitant step inside the room.

"Dad? Sam?" Dean called and then he saw the form of his father, lying on the carpet with a pool of dried blood around his chest.

"Dad!" Dean cried and fell to his father's side.

Dean checked for a pulse but pulled away- his father's skin was ice cold- and held back a sob.

"No," Dean whispered, his mind going a mile a minute, conjuring up the most horrible scenarios that had caused his father's death.

"Sammy! You in here?" Dean stood up and saw the top of a shaggy head just barely visible between the second bed and the wall.

"Sammy?" Dean approached his younger brother cautiously.

Sam didn't respond. He remained motionless.

"Are you hurt? Sam, hey, what happened?" Dean reached forward but found himself staring down the barrel of a .45 and raised his hands.

"Whoa, it's okay," Dean soothed. He saw that Sam's hair was longer, like it hadn't been cut since he'd last seen him and his bangs completely covered his eyes. Blood was splattered on his brother's shirt and face.

"Are you hurt Sammy? Let me see," Dean reached toward his brother again but Sam shrank back.

"Sammy, hey, it's me," Dean crooned, "We're gonna find the bastards that did this and make them pay."

Sam raised a shaking hand and reached toward his brother. Dean took the gun from his fingers and put the safety on before shoving it into the waistband of his jeans.

"S'okay, Sammy, s'okay," Dean reassured his brother and scooped Sam up like he was a little kid again.

Looking down at him, Dean frowned when he saw dark bruises on his brother's throat and face and a nasty-looking cut on his swollen cheek.

Holding his brother tighter, Dean grabbed the Impala's keys off the motel's rickety table. He tried not to look at their father's body.

He worked on getting his little brother into the passenger seat of the Impala. Sam curled around himself; big green eyes looked up at Dean.

"S'not Dad," Sam whispered, his voice broken from two days of silence.

"What?" Dean crouched down and leaned into the car so he could hear his brother better.

Sam heaved a pained sigh, "S'wasn't Dad… was something… else."

"What are you talking about Sam?" Dean asked but then he thought back to his father's lifeless body and Sam holding a gun.

"Oh no," Dean shook his head, "You didn't."

Sam's eyes filled with tears and he turned away from his brother.

"Shit!" Dean swore and stood, closing the car door. His little brother was confused. He couldn't have killed Dad, maybe it just seemed that way to his little brother though. Sam was so young. If someone had it in for their father, there wouldn't be a whole lot that he could do about it. Dean was just grateful that whoever or whatever had killed their Dad had spared Sammy.

Think Dean, think! What's important right now?

Dean had to get Sam to safety and bury their father.

W

Dean stared at the flames as they quickly consumed the pyre he'd built. He had driven a few miles out of Dover to a heavily wooded area and gave his father a hunter's funeral.

Sam was in the car across the clearing. He hadn't said a word since leaving the motel.

What the fuck is going on? Dean wondered and his hands balled into fists.

Dean's eyes turned skyward. He had to find out what had happened, who had killed their Dad and get through to his brother.

Dean turned away when the fire was nothing more than glowing embers and got into the Impala.

"Sammy, c'mon man, talk to me, what happened?" Dean pressed as he drove out of the forest.

Sam hadn't let Dean touch him and so he had no idea of the extent of his injuries.

"Wasn't Dad… it wasn't Dad… it couldn't have been Dad…" Sam muttered.

"What are you talking about? Who killed Dad?" Dean urged, starting to get frustrated.

"I killed Dad! I killed him!" Sam's voice cracked on the last word and he shuddered as he drew in a shaking breath.

Dean slammed on the breaks, "What! You did what? What the fuck!"

Sam cringed away from him but choked out the words, "H-he tr-tried to kill me… me."

Dean sat back in shock. Dad had tried to kill Sam.

"Oh no," Dean whispered, "No, I can't handle this right now… We have to go… We have to go to Bobby's or Jim's or something!"

Sam curled against the passenger's door.

Dean turned his gaze to the windshield, staring at the trees flying past the Impala, and tried not to think about what his brother had just told him.

White knuckles gripped the steering wheel as Dean tried to accept his brother's confession.

Dad had tried to kill Sam, his youngest son… why? What if Dad had good reason to though? What if Sam wasn't Sam… what if he was a shapeshifter or possessed by a demon something?

Eyes flicking to the side, Dean took in the sight of his brother's soiled, bloody clothes, pale face and greasy, long hair.

No, something was wrong with Dad… that had to be it, Dean gritted his teeth; Sam's just a kid, practically a little boy still.

"Don't worry Sammy," Dean said through clenched teeth, "Don't worry little brother, we're gonna fix this."

Dean didn't speak for a long time and then, "I'm going to fix this."

W

Dean drove until they had put Delaware in the rearview mirror. He stopped at a nice, quaint motel and got a room for the night- Dean wanted to check on Sam's injuries before going any further.

Dean was surprised his brother didn't protest when he picked him up after checking into a room.

He sat Sam down on a bed and ran back to the Impala, grabbed the luggage- Sam's duffle that had been shoved into one corner of the trunk, his father's which Dean had picked up from the shit-hole motel in Dover and his own which he'd moved from the car he'd jacked- and shut the door tightly behind him and drawing the curtains.

"I just wanna look at ya," Dean sat down on the bed beside his brother.

Dean pawed through his brother's duffle and pulled out a clean t-shirt and pair of jeans.

"Here," Dean offered the clothes to his brother.

Sam took his clothes and pulled his soiled shirt off. Dean grimaced at the bruises on his brother's abdomen, lining his ribs.

"Jesus," Dean whispered.

Sam stared at his brother from behind his bangs.

As he was putting his clean shirt on, Dean grabbed his wrist. There were scars on his brother's arm that looked suspiciously like cigarette burns. Dean recalled the cigarette butts littering the sidewalk in front of the motel room door.

"S-Sam," Dean's voice was shaking as he spoke.

Sam didn't answer but drew his arm to his chest protectively.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean's voice came out breathless.

Dean swallowed and didn't say another word as Sam changed, struggling to stay silent when he saw the extent of his poor brother's injuries.

He took the First Aid kit from John's duffle and pulled out some disinfectant wipes.

Dean cleaned the gash on his brother's face. Sam flinched only slightly.

"When I… wh-when Dad died… something… some m-mist came out of his mouth-" Sam muttered but Dean interrupted gently.

"Like demon smoke? Was it black?"

Sam shook his head, "White… like b-breath when i-it's cold out."

Dean rubbed his chin. It sounded as if John had been possessed by something… but what? He had never heard of white mist anywhere.

"Okay, okay," Dean said. He still couldn't believe that his younger brother had murdered their father; he couldn't believe that John had tried to kill Sam. He didn't want to believe any of it but in their line of work the truth was often stranger than fiction.

"How about we go to Bobby's and see what he thinks," Dean suggested but Sam shook his head.

"Why not?" Dean asked, confused because Sam had always loved seeing Bobby.

"He… he might…" Sam muttered and turned his gaze away from his brother.

"What, Sam?" Dean asked, leaning forward.

"He might not l-listen, Dean! H-he was D-D-Dad's friend," Sam stuttered.

"Sam," Dean tried to sooth, "Bobby cares about you, he's going to listen."

Dean could see the uncertainty in his brother's eyes.

"Please, Sammy," Dean begged, "For me?"

Sam bit his lip but nodded.

SPN

Bobby Singer was more than a little surprised when the Impala pulled into his yard after having almost no communication with the Winchesters for nearly a year. The veteran hunter was ready to tear John Winchester a new one for acting like such as ass. Bobby had been worried about the fellow hunter and his youngest son. Although Bobby recalled well the argument that had spurred their falling-out years ago when the boys had been young, he didn't like being ignored. John called every so often to tell him how his sons were getting on. It didn't matter that John and Bobby hated each other's guts, they both loved the boys and that was what mattered. Although Bobby hadn't called back again after listening to John's short-tempered answer on the phone, he had heard from other hunters that Winchester and his boy were still hunting and Bobby contented himself with the fact that they were safe and left the younger man to his own devices. If John wanted to talk to him, he'd call on his own. Bobby feared that if he grew too persistent then John would sever all contact with him and he'd never see the boys again.

When Dean stepped out of the driver's seat, however, the old hunter grew suspicious. When John's eldest son went around to the passenger side and picked up his younger brother, Bobby's heart leaped into his throat.

Stepping out onto his porch, Bobby bubbled with questions.

"What happened, Dean? Where's your Daddy? Is Sam alright?"

Dean didn't answer anything until they had taken Sam inside. Bobby gulped when he saw the bruises and cuts on the boy.

The old hunter grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge- Dean wasn't legal yet but the kid looked like he could use a cold one- and hovered while Dean made Sam comfortable on Bobby's old, brown couch.

"Christ, boy, what happened to him?" Bobby asked and took a quick swig of beer.

"Dad," Dean answered and Bobby choked on his drink.

"Say what?" The old hunter spluttered.

Taking hold of Bobby's elbow, Dean turned away from his brother and walked into the kitchen.

"Dad tried to kill Sam," Dean told him and Bobby's face paled.

"Oh no," He wiped a weathered hand over his face.

Before Bobby could speak again though, Dean told him that he thought John had been possessed.

"Demon?" Bobby asked the younger man.

Dean shrugged, "Dunno, gotta ask Sam about it. But let him rest for a while, he's exhausted."

Bobby nodded and waited patiently until Sam was up to telling him what had happened.

Poor kid, the old hunter thought as he saw the boy curled up on his couch, never catches a break and he's still only a baby yet.

W

Bobby Singer raised an eyebrow when Sam told him about the white mist. He didn't say very much about what went down before the strange fog appeared but Bobby wasn't about to push him. He would come around eventually.

"I'll have to do some searchin' but it sounds like John got himself tangled up with a dybbuk," The old hunter said and scratched at his beard.

"A dybbuk?" Dean asked half-curiously half-worriedly.

"Yeah," Bobby's head bobbed, "Nasty spirits from Jewish folklore… just wish they'd stay there."

Bobby almost couldn't believe it when Dean had told him that Sam had shot their father. Self-defense, Dean insisted, and although the old hunter considered John Winchester one of his better friends, he was unable to believe the fellow hunter would lay a hand on his youngest son in anger. Ever. John loved his boys; that's all he lived for. But Bobby wasn't going to argue about what John did or didn't do. Sam was a good kid and not prone to lying or making up stories. If Bobby had had any doubt, the bruises and cuts were all he needed as proof that something very bad had happened to him at the hands of his father- whether intentionally or not on John's part.

Dean gave his brother's hand a squeeze. Sam's gaze was locked on his knees.

"We'll find this thing, Sammy, and make it pay," Dean said bravely, slipping right back into his long-time role as a hunter. Revenge drove all thoughts of going back to school from his mind.

Sam shook his head, "No Dean… we'll make sure it doesn't hurt anyone else."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Megadeth song.

**Author's Note:**

> Fanfiction title comes from a Screaming Trees song.  
> Chapter titles comes from a Pink Floyd song.  
> The monsters John and the boys are hunting are vampires from Scotland. The name is pronounced "baa-van shee".  
> The "what-do-ya-call-'ems" from Canada that Dean mentions are Inuksuit (singluar: Inukshuk).


End file.
